m 


Evelyn  Campbell 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE  THRESHOLD 


THE 

THRESHOLD 


A     NOFEL 

By 

EV EL Y  N 
CAMPBELL 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  fcf  COMPANY 

1921 


Copyright,       1921,       by 
ROBERT    M.    McBRiDE    &    Co. 


Printed      in       the 

United     States     of     America 


Published     October,     1921 


THE  THRESHOLD 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  the  sunlight  fell  at  a  certain  slant  through  the 
dingy  windows,  Roscoe  Christy  got  up  heavily  from 
the  horsehair  cushioned  armchair  where  he  had  been  sitting 
most  of  the  day  and  prepared  to  close  his  office. 

This  was  a  ceremony.  First,  he  would  replace  the  thick 
calfskin  books  whose  pages,  yellowed  by  age,  lay  open  upon 
the  table.  The  walls  were  lined  with  shelves  that  held  hun 
dreds  of  these  books  and  he  knew  and  jealously  loved  each 
one  of  them.  He  would  have  lingered  over  this,  but  habit 
made  his  hands  too  proficient.  The  books  slipped  into  their 
grooves  like  machinery  and  soon  the  last  of  them  took  its 
place  in  an  orderly  row.  After  this  he  sorted  and  put  away 
papers  which  had  occupied  and  whiled  away  the  hours  of 
another  day.  They  were  all  dusty  and  yellowed,  like  the 
books, — souvenirs  of  an  era  long  passed  .  .  .  leases  and 
briefs  which  every  one  else  had  forgotten.  Nothing  re 
mained  but  to  empty  the  water  glass  and  turn  it  down  upon 
the  edge  of  the  table. 

By  this  time  the  sun  had  changed,  leaving  the  room  in  a 
faint  grayness  like  that  of  early  dawn.  It  was  still  bright 
day  out  of  doors,  but  these  windows,  veiled  in  grime,  would 
not  let  the  light  through.  He  found  the  right  key  upon  a 
crowded  ring  and  went  out,  carefully  locking  the  door  after 
him. 

1 

15629G6 


2  THE  THRESHOLD 

The  office  was  in  one  of  the  old  buildings  which  were  a 
part  of  the  old  Cresston,  and  the  street  on  which  he  emerged 
was  full  of  mean  little  business  enterprises  that  seemed  to  be 
hiding  here  from  the  relentless  spirit  of  renovation  and  ex 
pansion  which  had  laid  hands  on  the  town  and  was  swiftly 
metamorphosizing  it.  Not  so  long  ago  Horton  Street  had 
been  no  worse  than  its  neighbors,  but  now  its  shabbiness 
was  pitilessly  betrayed  by  the  magnificence  of  a  new  de 
partment  store  which  stood  at  the  corner,  a  scant  block 
away. 

He  turned  from  this  unsightliness  into  the  broad  square 
which  had  been  named  for  his  family.  In  the  center  of  it 
the  Courthouse  stood  with  a  majestic  display  of  Gothic 
columns  which  had  cost  the  tax  payers  of  Cresston  dear. 
The  long,  grassy  slope  of  the  lawn,  shaded  by  ancient  trees 
that  were  never  trimmed,  was  a  favorite  lobby  for  the  men 
who  talked  over  the  affairs  of  the  nation  in  the  open,  and 
for  loungers  who  fed  on  stray  bits  of  gossip,  and  for  small 
boys  who  did  errands  for  a  penny.  But  at  this  hour  the 
lawn  was  empty  and  the  shade  of  the  great  trees  had  turned 
it  into  dim  aisles  of  coolness  and  beauty.  Stray  bits  of 
paper  moving  in  the  breeze  that  came  from  the  hot  west 
were  lifted  lazily,  like  white  butterflies  hovering  in  the  deep 
shadow.  .  .  . 

The  old  building,  the  old,  old  trees,  and  the  greensward 
were  like  an  oasis  rimmed  by  the  bright  glittering  of  the 
modern  buildings  that  faced  the  Courthouse  from  four  di 
rections.  When  Christy  Square  was  named,  the  Court 
house  had  been  magnificent,  but  now  its  greatness  was  sub 
merged  like  the  dreams  of  childhood  which  dwindle  before 
the  realism  of  age.  The  Sheridan  Building,  pointing  up 
ward  like  a  white  shaft,  caught  the  sun  upon  its  glittering 
window  panes  and  seemed  to  look  with  tolerant  wisdom 


THE  THRESHOLD  3 

upon  its  lowlier  neighbors.  The  Merchants'  Bank,  frown 
ing  coldly  behind  its  marble  mask,  waited  in  sphinx-like 
calm  for  old  traditions  to  fall.  The  new  fagades  of  new 
shops,  shaded  by  gay  awnings,  drew  aloof  in  their  bright 
busyness  from  this  dignified  monument  of  old-fashioned 
days. 

Roscoe  Christy  did  not  pause  on  his  way  through  the 
Square  but  his  eyes  were  fastened  furtively  on  the  building, 
eagerly  marking  an  open  window  here  and  there,  small  signs 
that  the  place  was  not  altogether  deserted,  or  that  some  one 
had  been  negligent.  He  always  wanted  to  stand  before  the 
Courthouse,  like  a  lover  at  a  window,  but  he  never  did. 
He  had  lived  in  Cresston  too  long  not  to  fear  its  ridicule. 

The  streets  leading  away  from  the  Square  were  filling 
with  a  slow  and  dwindling  procession  of  home-goers  who 
tried  to  find  shelter  beneath  the  deep  elms  that  lined  the 
shady  avenues.  Nearly  all*of  these  were  men,  for  Cresston 
was  an  old-fashioned  community  where  women's  occupa 
tions  kept  them  in  four  walls  at  that  hour,  and  each  of  these 
men  was  going  home  to  a  woman  who  waited  for  him. 
Some  were  young,  with  the  buoyancy  which  even  a  hot  day 
could  not  conquer,  but  for  one  like  this  there  were  many  of 
the  sort  of  which  such  processions  are  made :  grayish,  a  little 
round-shouldered,  with  baggy  knees ;  every  one  with  an  even 
ing  paper  and  sometimes  a  parcel  or  two.  There  was  little 
to  distinguish  one  from  another,  for  even  their  footfalls 
seemed  to  sink  into  a  rhythm  of  motion  that  kept  them  an 
even  distance  from  one  another.  These  were  the  married 
men  of  Cresston  going  home  to  supper  and  they  kept  the 
threads  of  smoke  going  upward  from  their  chimneys  by  the 
thousand  and  one  occupations  which  the  smallest  town 
affords.  During  other  hours  they  vanished  mysteriously. 
Like  all  other  towns,  Cresston  seemed  to  get  its  work 


4  THE  THRESHOLD 

finished  by  gnome-like  methods,  but  at  five  o'clock  the 
workers  were  always  going  by  with  their  newspapers  and 
little  parcels,  greeting  each  other  with  dry  nods  in  a  sort  of 
queer  brotherhood  which  begins  at  the  marriage  license 
bureau. 

As  Roscoe  Christy,  passing  diagonally  through  the 
Square,  turned  into  Armitage  Street,  he  nodded  to  many 
men  and  was  nodded  to  in  tura  by  others ;  sometimes  he  met 
the  fleeting  smile  with  which  people  recognize  a  familiar 
figure  that  is  actually  unknown  to  them.  It  was  only  to 
the  new  element  which  had  appeared  in  Cresston  since  the 
war  that  his  face  was  unknown.  These  people,  these  com 
placent,  efficient  strangers  who  walked  briskly  in  spite  of 
the  heat,  he  observed  without  interest,  or  failed  to  see  at  all. 

In  Armitage  Street  the  elms  were  wider  branched  as  the 
street  itself  was  broader,  and  in  the  deep  shade  he  took  off 
his  panama  hat  and  fanned  himself  as  he  walked  along, 
marking  the  changes  of  the  day  just  finished. 

It  was  a  beautiful  old  street  in  a  gay  new  gown,  beneath 
which  some  of  its  charm  was  lost,  though  to  the  people  who 
lived  there,  most  of  them  gay,  young  married  folk,  glad 
enough  to  be  done  with  gray  old  ways,  it  seemed  old  and 
staid  enough  still.  Once  the  pretentious  houses  had  stood 
almost  a  block  apart,  but  now  they  were  building  new  bung 
alows  and  villas  behind  the  guarding  elms  along  its  length. 
He  hated  the  sound  of  the  hammering  which  portended  the 
new  phase  which  had  overtaken  Cresston.  It  meant  that 
life  was  flying  by  and  would  stop  for  no  one  who  lingered 
in  the  race.  .  .  . 

He  passed  the  Pendleton  house  which  had  a  large  "For 
Sale"  sign  tacked  upon  the  railing  of  its  gray,  deserted 
veranda.  The  family  had  moved  away  the  week  before,  to 
live  upon  a  five  acre  tract  upon  the  wrong  side  of  town. 


THE  THRESHOLD  5 

They  claimed  that  the  house  was  too  large  for  them,  and 
Mrs.  Major  Pendleton  and  her  widowed  daughter  Rosalie 
were  going  into  the  chicken  business — for  their  health,  they 
said,  but  this  deceived  nobody.  It  was  known  that  the  Pen- 
dletons  were  ruined. 

An  old  negro  man,  with  hair  as  white  as  cotton  and  a 
wrinkled  face,  was  pushing  a  lawn  mower  back  and  forth 
across  the  Withrow.  lawn,  and  the  clatter  of  the  machine 
sent  out  a  pleasant,  musical  rhythm  as  it  advanced  and  re 
treated  over  the  velvet  grass.  Colonel  Withrow,  tall  and 
elegant  in  his  linen  clothes,  followed  the  mower  with  the 
sprinkling  hose,  always  watching  hopefully  for  a  tuft  of 
grass  left  uncut,  but  never  finding  it.  When  he  saw  his  old 
friend  approaching  he  gave  the  hose  to  the  negro,  who 
willingly  abandoned  the  heavy  mower,  and  went  to  the  edge 
of  the  lawn  where  an  iron  fence  with  needle-like  pickets 
separated  the  grounds  from  the  trespass  of  the  town. 

"A  warm  day,  a  warm  day,  Roscoe,"  said  the  Colonel, 
when  the  other  was  near  enough  for  greeting.  He  wiped 
his  heated  face  with  a  fine  linen  handkerchief  and  flicked 
it  delicately  in  the  air,  his  eyes  lingering  on  the  languid 
movements  of  the  hose  wielder.  "It  is  an  outrage  that  a 
man  of  my  years  should  be  forced  to  follow  a  lazy  negro 
around  on  a  day  like  this,  but  if  I  left  that  fellow  alone  this 
lawn  would  look  as  though  a  woman  had  been  over  it  with 
a  pair  of  scissors.  You  can't  trust  to  hired  help  in  these 
days." 

"You've  had  that  negro  in  your  family  for  twenty-five 
years." 

"But  he's  changed.  He's  not  the  same  negro  he  used  to 
be.  He  looks  the  same,  Roscoe,  but  he's  changed,  like 
everything  else."  In  one  mind  they  looked  along  the  street 
at  the  white  frames  of  new  houses  going  up  like  magic 


6  THE  THRESHOLD 

among  the  trees;  the  hammering  had  ceased.  But,  when 
their  eyes  met,  each  refused  to  recognize  the  gray  and  aging 
face  that  replaced  the  youth  he  used  to  know.  They  could 
not  see  that  they  were  changing,  too. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  the  news  about  my  son, 
Peter,"  said  the  Colonel  after  a  slight  pause.  "I  will  not 
pretend  that  I  am  pleased.  To  an  old  friend  I  may  even 
declare  myself  seriously  annoyed.  In  my  opinion  young 
Harkness  is  an  upstart,  a  complacent  upstart  who  from  the 
beginning  has  not  scrupled  to  win  his  way  at  anybody's  cost. 
In  mentioning  this  to  my  son  I  emphasized  the  fact  that  it 
was  distinctly  unpleasant  to  see  my  name  linked  with  that  of 
Harkness,  but  this  made  no  impression.  Peter  merely  re 
minded  me  that  the  young  man's  brilliant  war  record  wiped 
out  all  class  distinctions.  In  the  end  I  could  only  yield." 

"You  refer  to  the  law  partnership  of  your  son  and  young 
Cleve  Harkness?"  inquired  Judge  Christy.  After  a  pause 
he  added,  with  grim  if  unwilling  justice,  "He  has  a  bright 
mind.  ...  It  is  possible  for  him  to  go  far  in  such  days  as 
these." 

They  were  silent,  both  thinking  with  some  bewilderment 
of  the  present  era  in  which  youth,  with  effortless  ease, 
leaps  beyond  the  experience  of  age.  But  while  they  ad 
mitted  this  marvel  they  held  tenaciously  to  a  secret  contempt 
for  endeavors  that  must  surely  fail.  When  the  subject 
seemed  to  be  dismissed  Roscoe  Christy  returned  to  it. 
"They  are  to  settle  in  the  new  Sheridan  Building,  I  hear." 

"Oh,  yes,"  the  Colonel  returned  with  some  pomposity, 
"Peter  thinks  nothing  of  money  when  he  is  gratifying  a 
fresh  fancy,  and  naturally  the  other,  coming  from  the  stock 
he  does,  will  go  in  for  show  and  extravagance." 

Young  Peter  Withrow,  inheriting  a  large  fortune  from 
his  mother's  father,  annoyed  his  own  parent  unreasonably 


THE  THRESHOLD  7 

by  a  persistent  independence  of  action.  The  Colonel  would 
have  scorned  the  suggestion  that  he-  was  a  little  jealous, 
but  Peter's  money  remained  a.  thorn  in  his  side,  only  a  little 
less  piercing  than  Peter's  outrageous  behavior. 

A  long  gray  roadster  came  slipping  into  the  quiet  street 
and  paused  humming  softly  at  the  curb.  The  driver,  a 
young  man  with  a  pleasant,  quizzical  face  and  eyes  that 
were  a  little  near-sighted  behind  strong  glasses,  nodded  to 
the  two  elderly  men  who  watched  him  disapprovingly. 
When  he  joined  them  the  Colonel  said  in  a  reproachful 
tone: 

"Judge  Christy  has  been  asking  about  your  arrangement 
with  Cleve  Harkness,  but  of  course  I  could  tell  him  very 
little, — only  what  I  have  heard  from  disinterested  parties." 

Peter  Withrow  laughed  easily.  He  had  a  pleasant  laugh 
that  showed  good  white  teeth.  He  recognized  his  father's 
little  weakness. 

"There  isn't  anything  to  tell,"  he  said,  "only  that  two 
impudent  youngsters  are  going  after  the  old  dog's  bones." 
Then  he  turned  to  Judge  Christy,  abandoning  his  light  mood, 
"Is  it  true,  Judge,  that  you  are  to  be  named  in  the  Primary? 
I  heard  the  report  to-day,  but  I  believed  you  were  out  of 
politics  for  good." 

Colonel  Withrow  looked  anxiously  from  his  son  to  his 
friend.  He  knew  that  Peter  was  treading  on  delicate 
ground  and  wanted  to  warn  him  with  a  look  that  the  subject 
of  politics  was  one  to  be  avoided.  He  felt  a  sensitive  sym 
pathy  for  the  man  who  had  fed  on  wormwood  instead  of 
the  sweetmeats  of  public  favor  and  he  spoke  sharply. 
"This  town  is  made  up  of  gossiping  old  women.  No  one's 
affairs  are  safe." 

But  Roscoe  Christy  stood  looking  down  at  his  dusty  boots 
without  denial  or  affirmation.  All  day  he  had  been  asking 


8  THE  THRESHOLD 

himself  a  question  as  he  poured  over  his  useless  files,  and, 
now  that  another  voiced  it,  the  answer  appeared  logically  be 
fore  him.  Peter's  brown  shoes,  meticulously  well  kept, 
within  a  yard  of  his  own  worn  half  soles  may  have  uncon 
sciously  dominated  his  resolve.  But  there  was  no  unbend 
ing  of  pride  in  his  answer. 

"Your  information  was  correct,  sir.  I  have  been  asked 
to  represent  my  party  in  the  coming  election  and  I  shall  ac 
cept  the  nomination  if  it  is  offered  me.  I  thought  that  I 
was  out  of  politics,  as  you  say,  but  that  was  a  mistake.  As 
a  citizen  of  town  or  country,  a  man  is  at  the  service  of  his 
fellow  men  while  he  can  do  his  duty  by  them, — and  this  I 
shall  try  to  do  if  I  am  returned.  If  the  subject  is  discussed 
again  in  your  hearing,  you  may  give  out  this  information. 
.  .  .  Jasper,  I  see  that  your  negro  has  dropped  that  hose 
without  turning  off  the  water  and  the  sod  is  being  torn  by 
the  stream.  You  are  right ;  the  race  cannot  be  trusted  any 
longer." 

He  broke  off  suddenly  as  though  he  had  said  more  than 
the  subject  of  the  negro's  delinquency  could  cover,  and  with 
a  brusk  leave-taking  went  on  his  way. 

"You'll  be  elected,  never  fear,  Judge,"  Peter  called  after 
him  cheerily,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  hear.  The  Colonel, 
forgetting  his  precious  turf,  looked  wistfully  into  the  past 
and  Peter  grumbled  under  his  breath,  "I  wonder  why  the 
poor  old  fellow  never  made  a  success  of  things  ?" 

As  the  father  and  son  walked  up  the  nagged  path  to  the 
house,  the  former  said  gravely,  "Success  has  its  favorites. 
The  whipper-snapper  you  have  linked  your  honored  name 
with  may  become  a  Cabinet  member,  when  by  heredity  he 
should  be  varnishing  chairs  and  tables,  while  yonder  goes  a 
man  who  was  born  to  rule  a  state." 


THE  THRESHOLD  9 

They  looked  again,  but  he  had  passed  out  of  sight  beyond 
the  drooping  elms  whose  branches  almost  touched  across  the 
street  like  the  feeble  clasp  of  old  fingers.  The  Colonel 
added  firmly,  "Yes,  sir,  he  ought  to  rule  a  state,  and  he  can 
not  pay  his  office  rent.  What  is  justice?" 


CHAPTER  II 

FROM  one  corner  of  the  Christy  premises  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  Armitage  Street  could  be  had,  and  young 
Donnie  Christy,  gazing  pensively  on  the  early  evening 
prospect  from  his  vantage  point  upon  the  post,  beheld 
among  others  the  homecoming  figure  of  his  father.  It  was 
part  of  his  secret  boy-business  to  watch  for  approaches  from 
this  look-out,  and,  discovery  being  contrary  to  his  plans,  he 
dropped  like  a  plummet  from  the  post  and  went  quietly 
through  the  tangled  orchard  until  he  reached  the  plum  grove 
near  the  back  of  the  house. 

His  mother  was  there  with  a  neighbor,  Mrs.  Stevens,  a 
young  married  woman  who  was  perpetually  talking  of  her 
three  children  and  the  plans  she  and  her  husband  had  made 
for  their  future.  Donnie  loved  to  hear  these  predictions, 
which  seemed  to  hint  at  some  magic  power,  and  when  he 
saw  Mrs.  Stevens  he  stopped  to  listen. 

There  were  six  plum  trees  in  the  group  which  Mrs. 
Christy  loved  to  call  "the  grove,"  and  the  two  women  had 
been  gathering  fruit,  small,  plump,  red  globes,  into  a  shallow 
pan  which  Mrs.  Stevens  held  with  an  air  of  mentally  weigh 
ing  its  contents.  She  had,  it  appeared,  grown  ambitious  on 
the  subject  of  jelly. 

"When  I  tasted  that  glass  you  sent  over  to  Gran'ma  Dale, 
I  vowed  I  never  would  let  a  summer  go  by  without  putting 
up  a  few  dozen  of  your  plums/'  she  said,  and  added  politely, 
"Of  course,  if  you  can  spare  them." 

10 


THE  THRESHOLD  11 

Mrs.  Christy  delivered  choice  fruit  by  threes  and  fours  to 
the  granite  pan.  ''I'm  not  putting  up  much  fruit  the  last 
year  or  two,"  she  said.  "The  children  are  growing  up  un 
til  they  don't  care  for  jelly  as  they  did." 

For  years  the  plentiful  fruit  upon  the  Christy  place  had 
been  free  to  those  who  came  with  baskets  to  gather  it. 
Mrs.  Christy  always  assisted,  apologizing  for  the  poor 
quality  of  the  fruit  with  the  excuse  that  the  Judge  had  no 
time  to  trim  or  prune.  This  was  a  fallacy  accepted  in  the 
same  spirit  it  was  given.  The  Judge  had  plenty  of  time, 
only  the  condition  of  the  trees  was  emblematic  of  the 
deeper,  wider-spreading  ruin  which  had  befallen  the  family ; 
but  Mrs.  Stevens,  a  newcomer  in  Cresston,  knew  nothing  of 
these  gentle  traditions.  She  admitted  that  she  could  hardly 
"place"  the  Christys,  but  in  the  secrecy  of  her  thoughts  she 
gave  them  pity.  The  situation  was  approaching  a  delicate 
angle,  and  two  high  spots  of  color  appeared  on  the  visitor's 
cheeks. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  accepting  these  plums  without  making 
some  return,"  she  began,  in  a  thin,  unnatural  voice.  "What 
are  plums  selling  for,  Mrs.  Christy?" 

Mrs.  Christy,  meeting  a  distinct  situation,  became  calm. 
Her  once  pretty  mouth  drew  into  a  firm  line  that  was  some 
how  ascetic  and  sweet.  She  knew  that  money  was  about 
to  be  offered  for  the  plums  by  one  who  might  be  termed  an 
innocent  purchaser  and  she  debated  with  herself  whether  to 
take  it.  It  was  very  difficult,  but  she  steeled  herself  to  the 
demand  and  silenced  the  conscience  which  reminded  her  that 
the  shallow  pan  of  fruit  belonged  to  the  poorest  yield  the 
grove  had  offered  for  years.  But  Mrs.  Stevens  would  un 
doubtedly  offer  as  much  as  forty  cents,  and  it  strengthened 
her  to  enumerate  in  her  mind  how  many  small,  important 
things  forty  cents  would  buy.  The  plums  had  always 


12  THE  THRESHOLD 

rotted  or  been  given  away  and  to  be  paid  for  them  was  like 
finding  the  money  lying  in  the  grass. 

Donnie,  in  the  background,  looked  anxiously  at  his 
mother.  Even  he  recognized  a  situation  that  seemed  to 
place  Mrs.  Christy  in  the  position  of  a  market  gardener, 
but  he  was  relieved  when  he  heard  her  saying  coolly,  "I 
could  not  say  ...  It  has  not  been  a  trouble,  Mrs.  Stevens, 
you  are  quite  welcome  to  the  plums." 

But  the  purchaser,  unsuspicious  of  the  truth,  rejected  this 
alternative  with  energy.  "But  William  wouldn't  have  it  that 
way.  He  can't  be  beholden  to  any  one,  and  I'd  hate  to-  tell 
him  these  plums  were  a  gift  I  deliberately  asked  for.  Do 
you  think  fifty  cents  would  be  too  much?" 

Mrs.  Christy  gasped  with  the  sensation  of  cold  water  in 
her  face.  Having  been  mentioned,  the  sum  sounded  both 
arrogant  and  small.  As  the  price  of  her  pride  it  was  in 
finitesimal  and  she  longed  to  repudiate  it  utterly,  but  a  strain 
of  stubbornness  in  her  nature  held  her  to  her  purpose. 

"I  wouldn't  say  they  were  worth  fifty  cents,"  she  mur 
mured  evenly,  her  eyes  on  the  pan,  "forty  might  be  reason 
able." 

In  a  moment  the  transaction  was  completed.  Mrs. 
Stevens  counted  over  four  dimes,  one  more  than  she  had 
meant  to  give,  and  in  a  little  while  departed.  "The  fruit  is 
a  little  over  ripe,"  she  said,  acidulously,  as  she  opened  the 
gate,  "I  wish  you  had  gathered  the  greener  ones." 

Mrs.  Christy  stood  with  the  four  dimes  against  her  palm, 
looking  at  the  evening  sky  which  showed  a  faint  smudge  of 
smoke  from  the  kitchen  fire,  and  Donnie,  yielding  to  an 
inner  urge,  came  and  stood  close  to  his  mother. 

"Gee,"  he  said,  furtively,  "what'd  you  sell  them  old  sour 
plums  for?"  He  watched  her  face  wonderingly,  as  though 
the  familiar  presence  had  suddenly  become  enigmatic. 


THE  THRESHOLD  13 

"What  of  it?"  She  turned  on  him  in  swift  defense. 
There  was  something  half  childish  in  Mrs.  Christy  which 
made  argument  with  Donnie  an  understandable  thing. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  sell  them?  Is  there  any  one  in  Cresston 
who  isn't  selling  things, — anything?  It's  the  way  people 
get  rich !  I — I — wish  I'd  been  selling  plums  all  these  years. 
.  .  .  Who  cares  for  the  things  they  get  for  nothing?" 

But  this  was  beyond  Bonnie's  perspective,  though  it  sug 
gested  a  fact  which  hurled  him  suddenly  from  illusion.  He 
had  no  language  in  which  to  clothe  his  discouragement;  he 
could  only  shift  from  one  foot  to  the  other  in  his  favorite 
attitude.  "Gee,  Ma,"  he  whispered,  "Gee !  I  thought  we 
was  rich."  And  then  because  it  has  been  provided  that  the 
hearts  of  little  children  shall  not  be  sorrowful,  he  quickly 
forgot  what  he  could  not  understand.  "Pa's  comin',"  he 
announced,  remembering  his  reason  for  seeking  her. 

The  excitement  Mrs.  Christy  had  shown  in  defending 
her  action  died  swiftly.  She  became  at  once  the  familiar 
person  of  every  day.  She  became  conscious  of  the  money 
in  her  hand. 

"It's  a  little  early  for  him,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  pleasant 
flurry  that  entirely  banished  the  subject  of  plums.  "I  won 
der  if  something  has  gone  wrong  in  town.  Everybody  tries 
to  make  it  hard  for  your  Pa.  He  has  so  many  law  cases 
and  folks  are  so  hard  to  deal  with,  I  suppose  he's  all  tired 
out."  Then  as  she  noticed  for  the  first  time  a  flicker  of 
incredulity  in  the  eyes  of  her  son,  she  added  forcefully, 
"Wait  until  you're  a  lawyer  yourself,  with  people  after  you 
morning  and  night, — you'll  know,  then." 

"I'll  not  be  any  lawyer  when  I  grow  up." 

"Donnie!"  His  mother's  shocked  voice  accused  him  of 
treason,  but  he  endured  it  dumbly,  digging  his  toe  in  the 
trodden  grass  beneath  the  plum  trees.  He  was  astonished 


14  THE  THRESHOLD 

when  she  changed  the  subject  brightly.  "I'm  going  to  make 
your  father  some  strong  coffee  for  his  supper,"  she  ex 
plained.  "I  expect  he's  all  tired  out  and  coffee  always 
rests  him.  And  you, — hurry  now!  Run  over  to  Poland's 
shop  and  get  some  nice  round  steak;  take  this  money.  It's 
just  enough.  Hurry,  now." 

He  obeyed.  At  the  corner  a  scouting  boy  whistled  be 
tween  his  bent  fingers,  the  long  blast  and  the  two  short 
ones  that  meant  important  business  at  hand.  But  Donnie 
with  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  signaled  a  grudging  answer. 
He  was  not  interested  in  boy-business  at  that  moment,  for 
his  mind  was  occupied  with  a  complex  question  to  which 
there  seemed  no  answer.  Everything  he  had  known  and 
believed  in  became  twisted  and  unreal  and  for  no  reason 
that  he  could  see.  His  father  was  a  great  lawyer  and 
Christy  Square  was  named  after  his  family.  That  alone 
had  given  him  prestige  which  he  accepted  naturally  as  his 
right.  .  .  .  But  his  mother  sold  plums  to  Mrs.  Stevens, 
whose  husband  drove  a  feed  wagon  on  busy  days.  He 
could  not  reconcile  these  inconsistencies  and  the  effort 
crowded  and  saddened  his  mind.  It  gave  him  some  relief, 
however,  to  repeat  his  threat  though  he  had  only  himself 
for  audience.  "I'll  not  be  a  lawyer  for  them,"  said  Donnie, 
going  home  through  the  alley  with  his  butcher's  package; 
"driving  a  wagon  is  a  lot  more  fun." 

The  Christys,  because  of  diverse  ages  and  tastes,  were 
rather  a  silent  family  at  meals,  and  it  was  not  until  supper 
was  nearly  over  that  Judge  Christy  began  to  speak,  address 
ing  -his  wife  who  was  his  invariable  audience.  To  him  she 
was  not  an  individual  but  a  concourse  of  vague,  indistinct 
figures  who,  in  his  imagination,  listened  meekly  to  his  dia 
tribes.  Mrs.  Christy,  helpless  to  release  herself,  writhed 


THE  THRESHOLD  15 

beneath  this  implication'  of  plurality  without  considering 
rebellion. 

"I  said  to  Wickersham  in  the  middle  of  the  Mahoney  case, 
'Sir,  if  this  decision  is  for  the  defendant,  it  will  prove  that 
there  is  a  menace  beneath  our  politics  darker  than  murder 
or  bloodshed, — for  actual  crime  can  be  sought  out  and 
punished,  but  intrigue,  dishonor  and  infamy  can  hide  them 
selves  forever  beneath  a  silver  dollar.'  I  told  him  that, 
madam,  and  what  happened?"  He  began  in  the  middle  of 
his  stormy  story  as  though  his  wife,  whose  intellect  struggled 
vainly  to  keep  pace  with  his  own,  could  fill  the  lapse  by  her 
own  deduction.  .  .  .  -The  poor  lady  was  trying  to  remember 
if  a  pan  of  biscuits  had  been  left  in  the  range,  but  not  daring 
to  investigate  she  tried  to  assume  a  curiosity  she  was  far 
from  feeling,  admitting  helplessly  that  she  could  not  imagine 
what  had  happened. 

''The  verdict  came  in  for  Mahoney,  of  course.  I  could  not 
believe  the  news  when  I  heard  it.  I  said  it  was  a  lie.  I 
warned  Wickersham  what  it  would  mean  to  the  town,  and 
he  laughed.  Laughed  in  my  face!  If  it  had  not  been  for 
Canfield  ...  he  took  me  off  in  a  corner  and  said  to  me, 
'Now,  Roscoe,  now,  Judge !  You  can't  do  anything  with  the 
party  which  has  the  upper  hand,  and  these  new  peopJe  have 
it.  They  are  in  control  of  the  town!'  After  a  moment  I 
was  calm,  I  saw  that  he  was  right.  But  after  all,  it  was 
lucky  I  wras  not  carrying  a  firearm." 

Mrs.  Christy  flinched  as  she  never  failed  to  flinch  at  that 
threat.  "Oh,  Roscoe,  don't  say  that !  There's  so  many  who 
would  hold  it  against  you  if  they  heard — " 

"Never  mind.  If  all  the  shysters  and  tricksters  were  shot 
down  as  they  deserve  the  world  would  be  better  off. 
Politics !  The  very  word  is  a  farce.  The  day  of  politics  is 


16  THE  THRESHOLD 

over.  We're  handled  like  so  many  sacks  of  cornmeal — 
Think  of  a  man  like  Jasper  Withrow,  cultivated,  a  gentle 
man,  and  a  member  of  Congress  at  thirty-five,  yet  dependent 
on  his  son's  bounty.  What  brought  him  so  low  but  politics? 
Yet  we  see  the  upstarts  thriving  on  every  side — " 

At  this  pause,  Antonia,  who  sat  at  his  right  hand,  made 
a  movement  to  rise  but  he  ordered  her  to  keep  her  place. 
She  obeyed  with  an  expression  of  slight  disdain  that  changed 
the  current  of  his  thoughts.  .  .  . 

"Why  don't  you  help  your  mother  more?  I  saw  her 
ironing  for  you  the  other  day — ironing!  It  never  hurt  a 
girl  to  work  around  the  house  a  little.  When  your  mother 
was  young  she  had  a  negro  at  her  elbow  every  second,  yet 
she  could  always  get  up  a  meal  on  mighty  little."  His 
glance  roved  over  the  table,  and  Antonia,  who  was  not 
afraid  of  his  tirades,  confirmed  this  in  her  low,  rich  voice. 

"That  is  a  special  talent  of  my  mother's." 

But  Mrs.  Christy,  aroused  from  her  apathetic  role  by 
the  possibility  of  conflict  between  these  two,  hastened  to 
present  her  own  breast  to  the  breach. 

"I  don't  want  Antonia  to  do  kitchen  work.  There's 
little  enough  of  it.  And  if  she  marries  any  Cresston  young 
man  she'll  have  plenty  of  her  own." 

Antonia's  delicate  dark  face  tilted  slightly  forward  as 
though  to  conceal  the  thoughts  that  were  mirrored  there; 
at  her  mother's  words  she  flushed  faintly  and  her  long 
lashes  unveiled  a  glance  of  defiance.  "You  know  that  I 
want  to  work,  father,"  she  said,  quietly. 

She  had  offered  this  solution  before,  and  the  result  was 
always  the  same.  Her  father's  face  turned  purple  and  he 
made  a  furious  gesture,  as  though  striking  out  at  some 
invisible  presence  before  which  his  arm  was  futile.  But 
the  effect  of  his  anger  was  made  ridiculous  by  the  crumbs 


THE  THRESHOLD  17 

upon  his'  waistcoat,  and  Antonia  did  not  shrink  from  him. 
He  shouted :  "I  have  told  you  not  to  repeat  that  insolence ! 
Your  place  is  here  with  your  mother,  as  a  modest  young 
woman.  Where  do  you  get  these  notions?  Let  me  hear 
no  more  of  them."  The  tirade  ended  limply;  they  had 
heard  it  so  often  before.  Mrs.  Christy  folded  and  unfolded 
her  napkin  and  Antonia,  looked  from  beneath  her  heavy 
lids  at  nothing.  He  coughed  a  little  and  went  out  on  the 
front  porch  with  the  evening  paper. 

"Why  do  you  aggravate  your  father,"  fretted  Mrs. 
Christy,  searching  through  kitchen  shelves  for  clean  towels. 
"It's  like  bitter  root  for  him  to  think  of  you  clerking  in  a 
store.  There  never  was  a  Christy  woman  yet  who  worked 
out.  Stop,  Antonia,  why  won't  you  take  this  towel  and 
let  me  put  my  hands  in  that  hot  water  ?" 

Antonia  laughed.  She  looked  beautiful  washing  dishes, 
and  with  laughter  she  became  a  vibrant  thing  of  light  and 
color.  As  she  splashed  and  rinsed  the  china  she  mocked 
her  mother. 

"And  who  are  the  Christys  to-day,  mother  dear?  What 
about  the  plums  you  sold  to  buy  our  supper?  Why 
shouldn't  I  be  the  first  to  work — if  it  would  save  you — 
save  you — " 

Her  voice  broke  like  a  string  keyed  too  high ;  her  eyes 
misted ;  she  bent  her  face  over  the  steaming  pan,  pretending 
that  the  moisture  came  from  there.  But  her  mother  beamed 
happily.  She  loved  to  plan,  and  never  having  outgrown 
fairy  tales,  she  at  once  saw  herself  clothed  and  jeweled  by 
the  hand  of  her  daughter.  "You  dear  child,"  she  murmured 
ecstatically,  "I  know  you'd  give  me  everything  if  you 
could." 

They  silently  busied  themselves  with  the  dishes  for 
awhile  and  when  the  work  was  finished  Antonia  went  to 


18  THE  THRESHOLD 

her  mother  and  dropped  a  swift  kiss  on  the  parting  of  her 
pretty  hair. 

"I'm  going  for  a  little  stroll,  mother." 

"Alone  ?" 

Mrs.  Christy's  voice  was  slightly  wistful.  Antonia  was 
always  alone;  she  did  not  make  friends  with  girls  who 
gave  parties  and  had  callers  every  night.  This  isolation 
always  saddened  her  mother  who  loved  laughter  and  light. 

"I  will  not  be  long,"  Antonia  promised.  She  did  not 
understand;  she  thought  that  her  mother  was  lonely  and 
missed  her  when  she  was  gone  for  a  little  while. 

In  the  soft  early  twilight  she  stood  irresolutely  upon  the 
doorstep.  One  way  lay  along  the  wide  elm-shaded  street, 
but  a  secret  call  sent  her  strolling  through  the  thick  dark 
ness  of  the  orchard  to  the  fence  corner  that  commanded  a 
lojng  view  of  Armitage  Street,  lighted  here  and  there  along 
its  shadowy  lane  with  bluish  arc  lights  that  cast  a  ghastly 
aura  over  the  earth  and  made  a  haven  of  delight  for  millions 
of  mad  insects.  From  the  next  block  some  one  turned 
rapidly  into  the  ;street,  and  his  footsteps  rapping  smartly 
against  the  pavement,  approached  the  corner  where  Antonia 
stood  half  hidden  by  the  fence  and  foliage.  Her  light  dress 
was  an  indistinct  patch  of  gray  against  the  dark  trees  and 
the  passer-by  was  almost  abreast,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  dis 
tance,  when  an  indistinct  movement  of  her  blurred  outline 
called  to  his  drowned  consciousness.  It  was  only  Antonia 
putting  her  hands  ta  her  hair,  but  to  him  it  was  a  gesture 
that  called  him  to  her  side. 

"Antonia!  Why  didn't  you  speak?  I  might  have  passed 
without  seeing  you !" 

"How  could  I  be  sure  that  it  was  you,  Cleve?" 

The  bluish  light  from  the  street  lamp  revealed  the  im 
maculate  whiteness  of  tennis  flannels,  inevitable  summer 


THE  THRESHOLD  19 

evening  dress  of  Cresston.  She  had  thought  of  him  in 
khaki  for  so  long  that  the  change  seemed  to  put  a  distance 
between  them  which'  had  not  existed  before.  She  moved 
further  back  into  the  shadow. 

"Don't  stop.  You,  are  going  to  a  party." 
He  smiled  and  came  closer,  peering  into  the  shadow 
in  pursuit  of  her.  "Not  a  party  .  .  .  just  an  hour  at 
D'upagny's,"  he' explained  rapidly.  "Peter  and  I  are  looking 
after  some  of  Dupagny's  business,  and  of  course  I  must 
go  there  when  they  make  a  point  of  it." 

She  murmured  indistinctly,  "Of  course  you  must  go." 
He  came  an  eager  step  nearer.  Everything  he  did  was 
eager  and  interested  and  full  of  life.  "I  know  what  you 
are  thinking,  Antonia.  After  that  wonderful  talk  we  had 
the  other  day!  But  you  are  wrong.  I  don't  really  care 
about  the  silly  parties  and  the  silly  women  who  give  them, 
and  after  I  get  into  harness  and  the  fight  begins,  I  intend  to 
drop  it  all.  I  haven't  forgotten  a  thing  you  said.  Nobody — 
no  girl  ever  spoke  to  me  like  that — about  the  future  and 
its  opportunities  and  all  that.  .  .  .  By  Jove,  you  are  won 
derful  !  I  went  to  sleep  that  night  pounding  at  a  volume  of 
Decisions  and  woke  up  feeling  that  I  could  conquer  the 
world.  .  .  .  I'm  in  earnest,  Antonia,  about  cutting  dances 
and  tennis,  and  it's  all  because  of  that  bully  lecture  of 
yours." 

It  w7as  much  of  Cleve  Harkness'  charm  that  he  was 
always  in  earnest  over  what  interested  him  at  the  moment. 
He  did  not  play  or  quibble  with  words  and  this  gave  the 
ring  of  authenticity  to  all  that  he  said.  This  frankness 
carried  him  into  hearts  from  which  he  might  have  been 
excluded  for  a  number  of  very  excellent  reasons.  He  was 
believed. 

Otherwise,  he  was  a  good  looking  young  fellow,  clean 


20  THE  THRESHOLD 

and  blond,  with  an  attractive  mouth  set  above  a  well  cut 
chin.  He  looked  amazingly  well  in  his  clothes,  and  those 
who  remembered  the  patched  trousers  of  his  boyhood  forgot 
them  at  sight  of  his  first  tailored  coat.  He  was  so  intent 
upon  convincing  Antonia  of  his  earnest  purpose  that  he 
sought  her  hand  through  the  fence  and  held  it  in  a  warm 
clasp  while  he  repeated,  "You  were  wonderful !" 

"I  did  not  intend  to  lecture,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Antonia!  .  .  .  You  serious  little  thing."  His  voice 
dropped  to  a  murmur,  "I  have  hardly  seen  you  since  I 
returned — and  if  you  knew  what  your  letters  meant  to  me 
when  I  was  across !  Our  talks  have  been  so  few,  you  must 
not  blame  me  for  treasuring  what  you  say.  Antonia  .  .  . 
will  you — will  you — be  here  when  I  return  .  .  .  it's  only 
for  an  hour.  .  .  ." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  so  quietly  that  he  hardly  knew 
when  it  was  gone.  "I  must  go  now.  .  .  .  Mother  will  be 
calling  me.  I  did  not  think  of  seeing  you  to-night."  She 
was  turning  away  when  with  a  dexterous  movement  he 
caught  her  hand  once  more  and  drew  her  into  the  light. 

"Don't  be  cross.  I  wonder  why  I'm  always  offending 
you.  I  did  not  mean  to  suggest  your  waiting.  .  .  .  It's 
only  that  I  want  so  confoundedly  to  see  you.  and  after 
an  hour  with  those  people  ...  it  would  be  glorious." 

It  was  impossible  to  remain  offended.  She  surrendered 
her  hand,  protected  from  closer  contact  by  the  palings, 
ancient  and  impregnable.  "You  must  go,  Cleve.  They 
will  be  waiting  for  you,  and — and — you  must  not  try  to 
get  away  too  soon.  You  are  sure  to  have  a  good  time — " 

"Antonia !" 

Her  face  was  close  enough  to  see  now,  and  her  wide, 
dark  eyes  looked  like  patches  of  black  velvet  in  the  smooth 


THE  THRESHOLD  21 

pallor  of  her  face ;  there  were-  little  golden  specks  deep  in 
the  pupils — like  fireflies. 

"Antonia,  you  know  I  don't  care  about  society — Cresston 
society,  and  all  that  rot.  Surely  you  don't  think  so  badly 
of  me  as  that!  It  is-  only  that  these  people  have  their 
piace — you  have  to  get  on  with  them-.  I  want  money  and 
success — most  of  all,  success,  and  I'm  going  to  have  it 
very  soon.  Money  isn't  enough.  Peter  has  money  but  it 
hasn't  brought  the  other  things — because  he  doesn't  care! 
That's  why  we  are  going  to  be  heard  from,  he  and  I !  I 
haven't  a  thing  to  bring  into  the  firm  by  myself,  and  I'm 
only  important  because  I  care  such  a  lot.  I  want  to  get 
ahead  and  I'll  take  poor  old  Peter  with  me,  money  and  all. 
To  get  this,  everything,  everybody  is  important,  even  those 
people  on  Dupagny's  veranda  to-night."  He  laughed  with 
boyish  boastfulness.  "Suppose  I'm  a  Judge  some  day, 
Antonia.  .  .  .  Won't  you  tremble  to  think  how  you  bullied 
me  in  your  time?" 

But  she  did  not  join  his  jesting  gayety.  Something  sad 
and  poignant  crept  across  the  moment.  She  drew  her  hand 
away  finally.  "I  must  go,"  she  said,  and  vanished  against 
the  dusky  screen  that  opened  to  receive  her. 

He  called  twice  in  a  hushed  voice,  but  she  did  not  return 
to  him  and  presently  he  went  on  his  way,  walking  a  little 
faster  to  make  up  for  the  time  lost.  He  was  used  to  Antonia 
and  her  queer  ways,  so  unlike  the  ways  of  other  girls,  but 
to-night  he  was  a  little  hurt  by  her  reception  of  his  confi 
dence.  They  had  known  each  other  as  boys  and  girls  must 
in  a  town  like  Cresston,  and  from  their  bickering  school 
days  there  had  been  a  bond  of  unspoken  allegiance  between 
them.  The  past  two  years,  which  he  had  spent  as  all  young 
Americans  spent  their  time  after  the  entrance  of  their 


22  THE  THRESHOLD 

country  into  the  world  war,  had  cast  Cleve  about  like  a 
shuttle-cock  and  left  Antonia  marooned  in  the  backwater  of 
a  small  town,  but  he  was  accustomed,  when  he  remembered 
her,  to  think  of  her  as  a  fountain  of  understanding  and 
sympathy.  Yet  to-night  she  had  received  his  small  con 
fidence  almost  with  abruptness.  He  was  at  an  age  when 
he  believed  women  rather  mysterious,  but  Antonia  puzzled 
him  more  than  any  other.  .  .  .  Then  he  reached  the 
Dupagny  house  and  in  its  lights  and  gayety  was  swallowed 
up,  swiftly  forgetting.  .  .  . 

Antonia,  making  her  way  back  to  the  house  through  the 
dewy  darkness,  almost  stumbled  over  her  young  brother 
sitting  in  a  hunched  position  upon  the  lowest  porch  step. 

"Why,  Donnie."  She  steadied  herself  and  reproved  him, 
elder  sister  fashion.  "Why  aren't  you  in  bed  ?  It  must  be 
nearly  nine." 

"I'm  just  goin'.     There  isn't  any  fun  stayin'  up  to-night." 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  dropping  her  long  arm  across 
his  thin  little  boy  shoulders.  "Why  not,  Donnie?  It's  a 
lovely  night,  I  think." 

"Lovely  for  some  folks.  Sis,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  stand 
in  my  fence  corner  to  talk  to  folks.  My  crowd  was  just 
gettin'  together  when  you  come  along  and  stood  there.  We 
hung  around  waitin'  but  when  Cleve  Harkness  came  we 
gave  it  up.  You  could  have  sat  on  the  porch  with  him  as 
well  as  not." 

Her  arm  fell  away  from  its  half  caress.  She  sat  upright. 
"Donnie,  you  didn't  spy  on  me?" 

"No.    But  it  was  my  post — " 

Their  mother  came  out  on  the  porch  and  joined  them, 
sitting  down  limply  in  a  sway  back  rocker  that  embraced 
her  gently.  Her  voice  wavered  as  she  cautioned  them  to 
silence.  "Your  Pa's  going  to  bed  early.  I  don't  think  I 


THE  THRESHOLD  23 

ever  saw  him  so  worn  out.  You  must  not  talk  loud  .  .  . 
he  hears  every  sound."  She  fanned  herself  exhaustedly 
with  a  newspaper  which  the  Judge  himself  had  left  beside 
the  chair.  "I  found  out  at  last  what's  been  worrying  him 
so  lately."  She  waited  for  their  questions  but  they  said 
nothing.  "He  dropped  a  word  or  two  to-night.  .  .  . 
They're  getting  the  Democratic  ticket  ready  for  election. 
Colonel  Wickersham  and  that  crowd.  They've  been  after 
your  father  to  run  for  office  again  and  it's  just  about  upset 
him  completely.  It's  the  money.  He  can't  make  up  his 
mind  to  let  the  office  go,  yet  I'd  rather  starve  than  see 
him  belittled." 

Antonia's  voice  'came  softly  from  the  darkness  that 
enfolded  her.  "What  is  the  office  ?" 

'Tor — for — judge — " 

Donnie  stirred;  he  caught  only  one  phrase  of  what  she 
said.  "But,  ma,  won't  that  be  bully?  My  father  a  real 
judge.  .  .  .  He'll  be  ahead  of  all  the  other  lawyers  then — " 

"Hush,  Donnie,  you  don't  understand.  He  won't  be 
ahead  of  any  one — " 

"But  you  said — " 

"He'll  only  be  Police  Judge,  Donnie." 


CHAPTER  III 

tragedy  of  Cleve  Harkness'  boyhood  had  been 
one  of  those  every-day  dramas  which  as  they  unfold 
among  commonplace  surroundings  are  lost  in  the  vision 
of  greater  happenings.  The  elder  Harkness,  despised  by 
other  merchants  as  a  dealer  in  second-hand  household  goods, 
led  a  dingy  existence  in  the  room  behind  his  store,  and 
the  little  boy,  who  had  no  mother,  slept  there  when  he  had 
to  and  avoided  the  place  at  all  other  times.  Old  Saul,  who 
was  suspected  of  being  a  miser,  might  have  done  well  by 
his  child  had  he  desired,  but  he  was  content  to  let  Polin- 
ski,  the  shoemaker,  virtually  keep  the  boy's  feet  from  the 
frost,  while  kind-hearted  Cresston  women  patched  his  little 
breeches  with  scraps  of  their  own  providing  and  pitied  him 
because  he  had  no  mother  of  his  own  to  fret  his  freedom 
or  curtail  his  wandering. 

The  Harknesses,  father  and  son,  occupied  a  small  niche  in 
the  annals  of  the  town  until  Cleve,  finishing  High  School 
at  an  unprecedented  age,  determined  to  read  law  instead 
of  adopting  his  legitimate  occupation  of  driving  the  grocer's 
cart — a  post  offered  and  refused  the  day  following  his  grad 
uation.  Naturally  enough  he  became  an  object  of  loathing 
to  other  boys  whose  envious  parents  constantly  pointed  to 
him  as  a  model. 

The  grocer  was  indignant  and  put  his  side  of  the  matter 
before  old  Saul  when  he  passed  the  shop  next  day.  The 
grocer  wanted  to  know  what  people  were  raising  boys  for, 

24 


THE  THRESHOLD  25 

nowadays.  But  the  second-hand  dealer  merely  looked  at 
him  with  his  red-rimmed  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  been 
peering  too  long  in  dark  and  musty  corners  and  went  on 
his  way  with  a  wry  and  icy  smile.  He  made  no  sign  of 
having  heard  the  grocer's  complaint,  and  no  one  had  seen 
him  evince  any  interest  in  the  boy  himself ;  but  that  night 
as  they  faced  each  other  across  their  frugal  supper  table 
he  asked  a  question  or  two  in  his  thin,  rasping  voice  that 
had  never  warmed  to  any  human  intercourse. 

"Why  didn't  you  take  the  work  that  Smith  offered  you  ?" 
Cleve's  ycung  mind  was  filled  with  a  bitterness  which 
denied  his  father  the  right  to  question  him.  His  clothes 
had  shamed  him  as  he  stood  on  the  school  rostrum.  Not  all 
the  art  of  Polinski  could  hide  the  wretched  condition  of  his 
boots,  and  his  swiftly-growing  body  advertised  cruelly  the 
makeshift  character  of  the  coat  that  tried  to  cover  it.  He 
had  always  been  afraid  of  his  father,  but  now  he  answered 
\vith  unprecedented  insolence. 

"Because  I  wouldn't  drive  a  grocer's  cart." 
Saul  put  down  his  fork  and  looked  at  his  son  with  new 
attention.      "And   why?"   he   asked   presently.     "Are   you 
proud  ?" 

The  boy  gave  way  to  a  fury  as  violent  as  it  was  rare. 
Fear  having  left  him  for  a  time,  he  gloried  in  the  chance 
to  repeat  his  cherished  wrongs ;  to  voice  the  resentment  and 
bitterness  that  had  grown  up  with  him,  and  to  heap  re 
proaches  on  the  father  who  had  never  loved  him.  He  thrust 
his  ragged  sleeve  before  the  flame  of  the  lamp. 

"Proud!"  he  cried,  "of  that?  ..."  Then  his  furious 
eyes  took  in  the  details  of  the  wretched  old  man  in  his  shabby 
clothes,  and  he  thought  of  his  narrowness  and  his  total  lack 
of  love  and  generosity.  "Or  of  you  who  have  let  me  live 
Kke  a  beggar?  No,  I'm  not  proud — except  that  some  one 


26  THE  THRESHOLD 

has  given  me  a  chance  to  make  something  of  myself."  He 
said  a  great  deal  more,  childish,  immature  ravings,  inco 
herent  on  account  of  rage  and  threatening,  disgraceful  tears. 
He  impressed  nobody,  not  even  himself,  and  presently  lapsed 
into  silence,  withdrawing  his  ragged  sleeve  from  the  light 
of  the  lamp.  Saul  had  listened  with  a  thoughtful,  sardonic 
smile,  waiting  patiently  for  him  to  finish.  Only  one  thing 
interested  him. 

"Who  is  going  to  help  you?" 

The  boy  answered  with  pride,  lifting  his  head  and  meet 
ing  his  father's  eyes  squarely.  "Judge  Christy.  I'm  going 
to  read  law  with  him.  I  began  to-day." 

Old  Harkness  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  a  laugh 
as  horrible  as  his  red-rimmtd  eyes,  while  the  boy  looked 
at  him  astonished.  "Christy,"  he  repeated  when  he  could 
speak.  "Roscoe  Christy !  You  have  made  plans  for  a  fine 
future.  Gad!  There'll  be  a  pair  of  you,  poor  old  Roscoe 
and  a  young  jackanapes  who's  ashamed  of  his  father.  It's 
a  fine  joke,  young  one,  but  of  course  you  can't  see  the  point 
at  your  age.  .  .  .  But  you'll  laugh  like  I  do  when  you're 
thirty.  .  .  .  Let  me  ask  you  one  thing  more.  How  do  you 
expect  to  live  while  you're  reading  law  ?  You'll  be  too  proud 
to  let  me  keep  you,  of  course." 

Whether  or  not  he  was  too  proud,  the  boy  answered  this 
by  working  in  the  despised  grocer's  store  after  all,  and 
studying  at  night  for  a  year.  But  having  a  mind  which 
possessed  some  marvelous  faculty  for  absorbing  knowledge 
and  turning  it  into  instant  advantage,  the  end  of  this  period 
found  him  in  a  position  of  petty  independence  through  the 
copying  of  papers,  bill  collecting,  and  other  unpleasant  busi 
ness  details,  and  he  was  able  to  divorce  himself  from  sugar 
and  bacon  and  devote  all  his  time  to  Blackstone.  He  lived 
in  a  cuddy  at  the  rear  of  Judge  Christy's  office,  and  with 


THE  THRESHOLD  27 

blithe  confidence  in  himself  and  a  dogged  determination  to 
win  his  goal,  studied  and  delved  through  the  countless  vol 
umes  of  the  Christy  library,  until  at  eighteen  he  had  acquired 
a  formidable  and  uncanny  knowledge  that  ranked  him  with, 
or  far  beyond,  the  sons  of  Cresston's  prominent  citizens, 
such  as  Peter  Withrow  and  Alan  Wickersham,  who  returned 
each  summer  from  Eastern  colleges  with  little  to  show  for 
their  absence  except  silver  cups  and  troublesome  bills. 

Cleve  never  crossed  swords  with  his  father  again,  though 
opportunity  had  not  been  lacking.  A  boyish  dignity  and 
shame  for  the  other's  incredible  meanness  kept  him  silent  in 
the  face  of  taunts.  Two  things  gave  him  control  of  his  own 
temper;  one  of  them,  the  fact  that  he  had  won  his  own 
point,  and  the  other,  which  came  slowly  to  him  as  his  mind 
matured,  was  that  his  father  was  by  no  means  ignorant  of 
his  progress. 

Other  matters  began  to  worry  him  as  he  grew  older. 
There  were  even  moments  when  he  wished  that  old  Saul 
would  break  the  ice  between  them,  with  an  insult  that  he 
could  answer,  for  he  had  to  admit  at  last  that  there  had 
been  a  reason  for  the  sardonic  laughter  on  the  occasion  of 
his  post-graduate  rebellion.  He  was  beginning  to  think  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake  in  aligning  his  fortunes  to  a  tottering 
cause. 

To  the  expanding  schoolboy  mind,  the  Christy  name  had 
meant  favor  from  the  highest.  The  Courthouse  Square  had 
been  named  for  the  Christys,  and  Cleve  could  not  imagine 
a  greater  honor ;  to  him,  as  to  Donnie,  years  later,  that 
fact  spoke  of  inevitable  wealth  and  power.  Now,  however, 
he  was  wiser. 

Beset  by  an  active  conscience,  he  argued  his  first  case 
with  himself  as  plaintiff.  Why  should  he  bury  his  youth 
and  its  opportunities  in  the  grimy,  forgotten  office  of  a  man 


28  THE  THRESHOLD 

who  had  never  made  good  ?  He  had  worked  hard.  His  own 
cleverness  and  application  had  stuffed  his  brain  with  learn 
ing  and  his  soul  with  ambition;  there  was  no  chance  for 
either  to  be  heard  behind  a  door  that  never  opened.  What 
did  he  owe  to  Roscoe  Christy  after  all?  He  had  paid  his 
way  by  a  thousand  minor  tasks  performed  for  a  man  who 
had  no  son  to  take  the  place  of  failing  eyesight  and  heavy 
feet.  Yet,  at  the  same  time,  conscience  reminded  him  of 
the  first  visit  he  had  ever  paid  to  the  dingy  room,  which 
then  had  seemed  a  shrine;  a  wretched  schoolboy,  holding 
his  battered  cap  in  twiddling  ringers,  explaining  between 
gasps  that  he  wanted  to  "study  law."  He  also  recalled 
the  man  who  listened  to  him  with  grave  courtesy,  not  smil 
ing  or  interrupting,  promising,  when  the  interview  was  over, 
to  help  him  to  his  desire.  He  had  been  given  his  chance 
to  learn,  and  the  food  for  his  ambition  was  on  the  endless 
shelves  that  covered  the  walls  to  the  ceiling.  His  conscience 
reminded  him  of  a  debt  that  he  miserably  admitted,  until  a 
girl's  smile  and  an  invitation  coquettishly  offered  erased  the 
sentence  that  would  have  chained  him  to  an  outgrown 
allegiance. 

Wickersham  and  Frye  were  the  most  progressive  firm  in 
Cresston.  They  united  with  their  legal  practice  a  thriving 
business  in  real  estate  and  first  mortgages,  and  Cleve's  activ 
ities  as  substitute  clerk  brought  him  into  frequent  contact 
with  both  partners.  Wickersham  and  Frye  were  not  the  sort 
to  overlook  anything  that  tended  to  their  own  advantage. 
They  saw  in  Cleve  a  youngster  of  remarkable  promise,  with 
a  keen  mind  and  a  genius  for  making  friends — always  with 
the  right  people.  They  began  to  look  him  up,  and  in  the 
process  discovered  something  that  brought  them  together 
in  whispered  consultation.  The  result  of  this  was  a  very 
decent  offer  to  polish  off  Cleve's  legal  education,  and  at 


THE  THRESHOLD  29 

the  same  time  pay  him  a  living  wage  for  nominal  duties. 
It  turned  the  boy's  head,  though  it  did  not  entirely  turn  his 
heart.  While  he  was  hesitating  between  conscience  and  de 
sire,  Bessie  Wickersham  smiled  and  invited  him  to  a  Sunday 
tea,  as  her  father  had  ordered  her  to  do,  and  the  balance 
w«as  turned.  Cleve  bought  a  new  blue  serge  suit  and  went 
to  Wickersham  and  Frye.  In  a  little  while  he  nodded  con 
descendingly  when  he  met  Roscoe  Christy  on  the  street. 

Until  that  time  girls  had  been  a  negligible  quality  in 
Cleve's  life.  He  had  been  too  poverty-stricken,  too  inter 
ested  in  his  own  flaming  intelligence,  to  think  of  them ;  the 
one  exception  being  Antonia  Christy,  a  shy  child  with  too 
much  hair  and  thin  legs,  who  did  not  count.  Cleve 
thought  of  her  when  he  wanted  an  audience  that  never 
failed  in  appreciation.  She  was  absorbingly  interested  in 
what  he  learned,  rather  than  in  him,  and  this  relieved  the 
embarrassments  of  adolescence.  With  Antonia  he  gravely 
discussed  "points,"  and  more  than  once  she  brilliantly  de 
feated  him,  to  his  chagrin  and  astonishment.  But  even  at 
this  age  he  had  a  masculine  distaste  for  brains  in  women 
and  refused  to  credit  her  with  knowledge  equal  to  his  own, 
preferring  to  accuse  her  of  parroting  her  father's  sayings ; 
a  charge  gently  endured  by  Antonia,  for  in  all  things  that 
did  not  move  her  deeply  she  was  sweetly  yielding.  Absorbed 
in  his  dawning  future,  Cleve  failed  to  realize  that  she  kept 
pace  with  him  and  was  his  closest  companion  until  that 
historic  day  when  Bessie  smiled. 

The  Wickersham  girl  was  a  dumpy  creature  with  a  thick 
waist  and  a  nervous  apprehension  about  marriage.  She 
would  never  have  wasted  a  glance  on  Cleve  except  by  her 
father's  command,  but,  having  smiled  once,  she  found  it 
agreeable,  and  Cleve's  entree  to  the  inner  circle  was  paved 
for  a  little  way  with  Bessie's  favor. 


30  THE  THRESHOLD 

She  was  four  years  his  senior,  but  he  found  it  easy  to 
fall  in  love  with  her,  and  having  once  experienced  passion 
he  brought  to  that  altar  all  the  enthusiasm,  the  keen  energy, 
and  tireless  investigation  that  characterized  his  endeavors. 

Bessie  passed  quickly,  disappearing  in  marriage  with  a 
young  doctor  who  needed  the  Wickersham  connection.  Long 
after  she  had  faded  from  Cleve's  mind  as  anything  except  a 
rather  dow'dy,  stout  matron,  she  cherished  the  memory  of 
certain  passages  between  them  and  wondered  if,  in  case  she 
died  first,  she  should  confess  to  the  doctor.  She  would  have 
been  a  happy  woman  if  she  had  known  that  her  smile 
marked  an  epoch  in  Cleve's  life. 

Old  Saul  Harkness  watched  the  gliding  changes  in  his 
son's  life  with  evil  eyes  that  missed  nothing.  He  had  de 
lightful  moments  picturing  Cleve's  amazement  if  he  knew 
that,  far  .from  displeasing  his  father,  he  was  being  secretly 
commended.  Old  Saul  thought  of  himself  as  a  marvel  oi 
diplomacy.  Why  not?  The  boy  was  being  educated  in 
the  best  of  schools,  experience — and  without  costing  a  dollar. 
While  men  like  Withrow  and  Wickersham  were  throwing 
their  money  away  on  Eastern  colleges,  his  boy  was  reaping 
the  advantages  at  home  that,  should  have  belonged  to  their 
sons.  He  was  waiting  for  Cleve  to  reach  a  certain  stage 
of  development  before  he  told  him  the  truth  and  made  him 
a  partner  in  his  own  future.  He  wanted  to  be  sure  that 
the  boy  had  reached  a  level  in  life  and  that  he  was  coldly 
calculating  enough  to  keep  the  helm  of  his  little  boat  square 
set. 

There  was  still  a  nominal  association  between  the  two, 
and  one  evening  Cleve  stopped  in  to  see  his  father  on  his 
way  from  a  warm,  delightful  house  where  his  evening  had 
been  spent;  still  thinking  of  incense  and  soft  cushions  and 
the  thousand  and  one  luxuries  which  made  up  the  life  of  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  31 

people  with  whom  he  was  becoming  acquainted.  With  these 
thoughts  before  his  mind,  he  astonished  his  father  with  an 
attack  of  such  sudden  brutality  that  the  old  man,  whose 
soul  reveled  in  his  pinch-penny,  makeshift  household,  re 
coiled  before  the  sweeping  condemnation. 

''Why  should  we  live  in  such  mire  as  this?  Between  us 
we  could  manage  something  better.  .  .  .  We're  not  beg 
gars  .  .  ." 

Saul  looked  rather  piteously  around  the  rooms  where  he 
had  spent  the  greater  portion  of  his  life.  In  a  way  his  habi 
tation  reflected  his  outlook  on  life,  and  for  this  reason  it 
fulfilled  his  every  need.  Now  he  realized  that  Cleve's  desire 
to  transform  the  world  would  begin  upon  the  roof  which 
had  sheltered  him.  But  old  Harkness  was  prepared  to  de 
fend  himself  from  the  attack. 

"Hah!  What!"  he  snorted,  showing  his  teeth.  "You're 
getting  up  in  the  air,  young  man.  What's  done  all  this? 
When  a  man's  ashamed  of  the  bed  that  bred  him  it's  a 
question  that  wants  an  answer.  Why  isn't  this  house  good 
enough  for  you  ?" 

Confronted  with  this,  Oeve  replied  forcibly,  not  mincing 
words.  "Because  it's  nothing  but  a  damned  hovel,  filthy  and 
unsanitary.  You  can  afford  a  decent  house.  Why  don't 
you  have  one?" 

Saul  sensed  danger.  He  might  almost  have  been  seen 
withdrawing  into  an  impervious  if  invisible  cover  of  his 
own.  It  was  nearly  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had 
been  attacked  openly  on  the  subject  of  money,  and  now 
he  thanked  whatever  gods  he  knew  that  he  had  been  reticent 
with  this  blatant  youngster,  who  was  ruining  his  chance  to 
share  his  father's  secret. 

"How  do  you  know  what  I  can  afford?"  he  began,  rais 
ing  his  voice  until  his  antagonist  was  silenced.  "You've 


32  THE  THRESHOLD 

lost  your  head.  .  .  .  Women  have  done  it.  ...  They'll  ruin 
you.  I  see  it  coming.  .  .  .  Women — at  your  age.  That's 
what  association  with  that  old  star-gazer  Christy  has  done 
for  you.  .  .  .  You  are  out  of  your  place — moonstruck.  If 
you  want  a  better  house  you'll  have  to  support  it  yourself 
.  .  .  marry  a  rich  girl." 

Cleve  blushed.  He  was  still  young  enough  to  blush  at 
the  mention  of  marriage,  which  was  like  a  sacred  vision  to 
him.  However,  the  vulgar  wrangle  decided  him,  and  he 
broke  with  his  father,  finally,  going  to  live  at  Mrs.  Miller's 
boarding-house  on  Thelma  Avenue,  and  taking  with  him  a 
suitcase  which  contained  his  second  suit,  a  half  dozen  collars 
and  some  worn  linen.  Mrs.  Miller  loved  his  bold  blue  eyes 
and  the  way  he  admitted  that  he  couldn't  pay  much  at  the 
start.  She  began  at  once  to  superintend  his  scanty  ward 
robe  and  to  fortify  it  in  unsuspected  places. 

However,  he  was  still  too  unimportant  a  figure  in  society 
for  his  movements  to  cause  the  faintest  interest.  He  might 
have  learned'  his  textbooks  backward  without  exciting  the 
uplift  of  a  penciled  eyebrow.  Women  were  beginning  to 
notice  his  lithe,  graceful  figure  and  charming  manner,  and 
men  knew  that  his  accuracy  could  be  counted  on  in  busi 
ness  matters,  but  these  things  were  little  things  to  measure 
importance  by.  Among  the  undergraduates  who  returned  to 
Cresston  for  the  holidays  he  was  gray  and  ungilded.  He 
needed  something  to  give  his  rise  the  momentum  that  would 
thrust  him  into  the  warm  glow  of  public  approval,  and  run 
ning  true  to  the  form  which  had  marked  his  way  this  far,  it 
came  to  him. 

When  America  declared  war  it  brought  the  same  condi 
tions  to  Cresston  which  came  to  a  thousand  small  towns. 
Life  was  topsy-turvy  in  a  day.  The  social  system  was 
thrown  into  the  scrap  heap,  sifted  and  readjusted.  A  man's 


THE  THRESHOLD  33 

importance  was  measured  by  his  height  and  weight,  the 
clearness  of  his  eye.  Over  night  the  blacksmith  became 
more  important  to  a  hysterical  public  than  the  banker  over 
fifty.  Democracy  entered  the  back  door  and  declared  the 
cobbler  equal  to  the  king — if  he  could  carry  equipment 
better. 

Out  of  this  confusion  of  tradition  Cleve  Harkness  issued 
like  the  hero  of  a  play.  While  other  men  scrambled  for 
patronage  and  appointments  and  rubbed  up  half -forgotten 
knowledge  or  failed  ignominiously,  Cleve,  without  exerting 
himself  in  the  least,  was  among  the  first  to  pass  for  a  com 
mission,  and,  having  received  it,  returned  for  the  briefest  of 
visits  to  his  home  town  to  find  himself  a  hero. 

For  the  first  time  women  really  discovered  him,  and  it 
must  be  admitted  that  in  his  uniform  he  was  worth  looking 
at.  The  town  turned  out  to  give  him  praise,  and  though 
there  was  a  smart  contingent  of  Cresston  men  who  served, 
it  was  generally  of  Cleve  Harkness  that  people  thought  when 
they  mentioned  the  town's  quota. 

It  may  have  been  his  loneliness.  It  was  noticed  that  there 
was  no  service  star  in  the  window  of  his  father's  second 
hand  store,  and,  while  they  only  despised  old  Saul  the 
more  for  this  omission,  they  did  not  enforce  the  duty  upon 
him.  Wickersham  and  Frye  put  two  stars  in  their  window 
instead — one  for  Cleve  and  one  for  Alan,  who  was  a  dough 
boy  in  spite  of  Yale. 

Cleve  came  back  after  two  years.  Most  of  this  time  had 
been  spent  in  training  camps,  but  he  got  to  France  in  time 
to  bring  back  a  few  stories  that  added  brilliantly  to  the 
town's  history.  Of  all  the  men  who  returned  he  was  most 
welcomed  by  the  public,  who  adopted  him  and  made  him 
their  own.  His  old  place  with  Wickersham  and  Frye  was 
open  to  him,  but  he  could  not  retreat  from  the  dignity  of 


34 

his  commission  to  the  position  of  handy  man  in  a  busy  office ; 
besides  he  felt  himself  the  equal,  if  not  the  superior,  of 
men  whose  territory  was  a  yard  or  two  of  Turkey  carpet. 
He  had  no  money,  or  next  to  none,  or  he  would  have  made 
the  start  alone.  Failing  this,  he  looked  about  for  some  one 
whose  limitations  fitted  to  his  own  qualifications. 

He  found  the  man  he  sought  in  Peter  Withrow.  He  had 
known  Peter  all  of  his  life,  of  course,  but  when  Polinski 
was  mending  Cleve's  broken  shoes  for  nothing,  Peter  was 
riding  his  blooded  pony  and  having  his  lessons  from  an 
imported  governess,  so  that  their  ways  seldom  touched. 
After  the  habit  of  childhood  they  had  envied  each  other; 
Cleve'  had  longed  for  the  rich  boy's  comfort,  and  Peter 
wanted,  above  all  things,  the  freedom  and  simplicity  of  the 
gutter.  But  it  had  never  gone  further  than  that 

As  young  men,  they  were  further  apart  than  ever  be 
cause  of  the  difference  in  their  natures ;  Peter  caring  for 
none  of  the  friends  who  would  have  chosen  him,  and  Cleve 
assiduously  making  friends  everywhere.  However,  the  war 
changed  all  this. 

Peter  did  not  go.  His  near-sighted  eyes  left  him  stranded 
at  home,  and  nobody  knew  how  he  felt  about  it,  for  in  the 
passionate  excitement  of  new-found  brotherhood  with  the 
brawny  saviors  of  the  country,  he  was  forgotten.  He  gave 
money,  since  they  would  not  let  him  give  himself,  and  when 
it  was  all  over  and  the  papers  were  filled  with  the  dull  after 
math  of  political  discussion,  he  invited  Cleve  Harkness  to 
take  a  long  ride  with  him  one  afternoon.  When  they  re 
turned  the  new  firm  had  been  named  and  capitalized. 

Wickersham  and  Frye  felt  rather  foolish  when  they 
thought  of  the  second  service  star,  and  in  the  privacy  of  his 
dark  and  dusty  shop  old  Saul  chuckled  and  rubbed  his 


THE  THRESHOLD  35 

palms.  He  could  see  his  son  climbing  upward  upon  the 
bruised  hands  of  those  who  had  lifted  him. 

Cleve  wakened  to  the  fact  that,  having  a  place  of  his  own, 
he  could  follow  his  own  ideas  and  not  another  man's.  He 
parted  from  his  firm  with  regret  but  no  sentiment.  He  did 
not  suspect  their  motives,  because  he  thought  only  of  his 
own.  Life  and  the  joy  of  living  were  pressing  hard  upon 
his  youth ;  his  clear  brain  was  slightly  befogged  as  his 
body  was  wearied  with  too  much  of  what  had  always  been 
denied.  He  had  never  known  the  cloying  sweetness  of 
feminine  sympathy  en  masse,  though  he  had  been  familiar 
with  pity,  and  he  became  swiftly  intoxicated  with  the  per 
fumes  of  the  inner  circle,  which  had  until  now  been  unknown 
to  him.  Through  all  this  one  side  of  his  nature  remained 
impervious  to  the  attack  of  lethargy.  He  who  had  learned 
to  earn  money  with  difficulty,  could  not  learn  to  spend  with 
ease.  Again  he  scored  with  fathers  who  wanted  an  example 
to  hold  before  their  extravagant  sons.  He  changed  his 
method  of  living  to  comfort,  but  that  was  all.  He  was  like 
a  skater  upon  a  vast  ice  stretch,  afraid  to  strike  out.  His 
changed  circumstances  put  him  in  contact  with  the  under 
graduates,  who  by  this  time  had  blossomed  into  professional 
men.  He  formed  friendships  with  men  like  young  Wicker- 
sham,  who  had  never  seriously  noticed  him  before,  and 
with  other  youths  less  gilded,  but  who  had  their  place  in 
the  events  of  the  town.  For  a  queer  reason  known  only 
to  himself,  Peter  Withrow,  the  most  difficult  person  to 
know  in  Cresston,  had  chosen  to  respond  to  Cleve's  charm, 
and  every  one  else  was  quick  to  follow  his  example. 

When  their  names  appeared  together  in  fat  gold  script 
upon  an  extravagant  set  of  windows  in  the  Sheridan  Build 
ing,  admiring  onlookers  spoke  of  "young  blood,"  and  pre- 


36  THE  THRESHOLD 

dieted   a   startling  rise  in  the  professional  values  of   the 
town. 

The  war  had  made  tremendous  changes,  but  none  more 
significant  than  this.  To-day  was  the  young  man's  day,  as 
yesterday  was  his  father's! 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  yellow  honeysuckle  at  the  south  side  of  the  house 
had  been  watered  late  in  the  afternoon  and  its  damp, 
heavy  perfume  mingled  with  the  lighter  essences  hidden 
in  the  delicate  garments  and  soft  hair  of  the  women  on  the 
veranda  of  the  Dupagny  house  in  Armitage  Street.  Rose 
loved  the  homely  vine  that  gave  itself  so  freely,  and  this 
was  strange,  for  with  the  secret  fire  beneath  her  languid 
beauty  she  herself  was  like  an  expensive  orchid. 

She  was  disdainful  of  contrast  and  loved  to  surround 
herself  with  beautiful  women.  All  her  guests  were  charm 
ing,  except  Ethel  Plumey,  who  sat  on  the  top  step  with 
her  face  lifted,  hoping  that  the  moonlight  made  her  eyes 
look  romantic.  The  Plumey  girl  bored  every  one  except 
Rose  Dupagny,  who  pitied  her  and  tried  to  help  her,  not 
knowing  that  such  interest  seldom  wins  gratitude.  To-night 
she  listened  to  the  flutter  of  conversation  around  her  and 
was  filled  with  a  longing  and  envy  that  could  only  be 
assuaged  by  the  discovery  of  intrigue. 

It  was  one  of  the  nights  when  Rose's  veranda  seemed  to 
have  captured  all  the  radiance  of  the  town.  Most  of  the 
men  were  congregated  in  Laurence  Dupagny's  den  where  he 
kept  a  very  good  brand  of  Scotch,  and  the  pretty  maid  who 
constantly  replenished  the  cracked  ice  failed  to  hear  any 
thing  more  exciting  than  post  mortem  golf  conflicts  and 
desultory  electoral  predictions,  but  on  the  veranda  it  was 
different.  Enough  men  remained  to  make  a  showing  among 

37 


38  THE  THRESHOLD 

the  pretty  shoulders  and  slim  ankles  that  emerged  from 
deep  wicker  porch  chairs,  and  husbands  who  made  bores 
of  themselves  were  not  missed  in  the  white  moonlight. 

Cleve  Harkness,  arriving  a  little  late,  found  a  place  rather 
cleverly  saved  for  him  beside  his  hostess.  As  he  slipped 
into  it,  guided  by  a  slight  pressure  of  her  hand,  he  was 
chagrined  to  find  himself  with  nothing  to  say.  Rose 
Dupagny  always  bewildered  and  confused  him,  though  this 
condition  was  gradually  passing  from.'  their  meetings,  which 
had  become  frequent  of  late. 

Before  his  war  experience,  Cleve  had  known  her  only 
as  a  startling  person  who  sometimes  floated  across  the  dull 
orbit  of  his  beauty-starved  existence.  In  those  days  he  was 
merely  a  precocious  youngster  grasping  at  knowledge  where 
he  could  find  it;  trying  to  overcome  the  handicapping  par 
entage  of  old  Saul  Harkness,  the  second-hand  dealer,  by  the 
fiercely  achieved  victories  in  the  petty  law  cases  that  came 
his  way.  But  khaki  and  a  medal  or  two  had  proven  a 
miraculous  bridge  which  spanned  no  greater  chasm  than 
one  which  brought  him  to  the  chair  beside  Rose  Dupagny. 

Under  cover  of  the  darkness  she  smiled,  noting  the  uncon 
scious  vibration  of  his  body  as  the  swaying  chair  brought 
her  nearer  to  him.  She  could  see  his  face,  dimly  lighted 
with  the  eagerness  that  was  so  charming,  turned  to  her  as 
to  the  sun.  She  knew  that  her  nearness  embarrassed  him 
and  this  pleased  and  amused  her,  for  she  loved  the  conquest 
of  youth  and  the  thrill  of  its  enthusiasm.  Protected  by  a 
ripple  of  laughter,  she  said  softly,  "I  was  afraid  you  would 
not  come." 

Miss  Plumey  filled  an  empty  moment  with  her  gurgling 
laughter.  "Pappa  told  the  oddest  story  at  dinner  to-night," 
she  explained  when  her  mirth  decreased.  "I  wonder  if 
you've  heard  it?  It's  about  the  election.  The  Democrats 


THE  THRESHOLD  39 

have  planned  such  a  funny  thing  to  do  to  somebody.  Pappa 
says  the  whole  town  will  be  laughing  to-morrow.  .  .  ." 

Into  the  bored  silence  that  followed,  the  lazy  voice  of 
Alan  Wickersham-  drawled,  "You're  speaking  of  poor  old 
Christy.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  very  secret  about  that,  and 
if  there's  a  joke,  I  can't  see  the  humor  of  it.  The  world 
is  full  o.f  lawyers  who  should  be  selling  coal,  and  if  Christy 
has  stuck  to  a  losing  game  all  his  life  why  should  he  be 
laughed  at  more  than  another?  Nobody  knows  whether 
he'd  be  a  success  at  his  profession,  He  never  had  a 
chance  to  show  it." 

Annoyed  at  the  failure  of  her  small  sensation,  Miss 
Plumey  began  to  laugh  again'  to  cover  her  chagrin.  "But 
it's  so  absurd,"  she  persisted,  "because  his  father  was  a 
Supreme  Court  Judge,  he's  tried  to  live  up  to  it  and  make 
his  family  live  up  to  it,  too.  They're  dreadfully  poor,  you 
know,  and  it's  so-  ridiculous,  that  pompous  old  man  calling 
himself  Judge  when  he  isn't  really  anything.  Pappa  says 
they  nicknamed  him  that  when  he  was  about  twenty,  and 
ever  since  he  has  been  trying  to  get  himself  elected,  to  an 
office,  from  the  senate  down.  The  men  who  run  the  elec 
tions  thought  they  would  give  him  a  right  to  his  title  at  last, 
and  he'll  really  be  a  judge — police  judge.  It  was  awfully 
clever  of  some  one  to  think  of  it." 

"You  read  with  him,  didn't  you,  Harkness?"  Alan  Wick 
ersham  asked. 

"Yes  ...  he  has  a  tremendous  library;  one  of  the  best 
in  the  State.  I  read  with  him." 

Ethel  Plumey  broke  in  again.  "They  say  he  accepted 
the  nomination  as  if  he'd  been  asked  to  run  for  Congress." 

In  the  shadow  of  the  overlapping,  elms,  invisible  persons 
not  eligible  to  the  Dupagny  veranda,  strolled  toward  the 
Square,  where  the  blazing  electric  signs  of  vulgar,  amusing 


40  THE  THRESHOLD 

picture  theaters  cajoled  them  from  the  soft,  warm  night. 
Their  voices,  murmurous,  admonishing,  and  critical,  rose 
and  fell;  children  whimpered  and  laughed.  Out  of  the 
ruck  of  unimportant  nobodies,  a  man,  walking  slowly, 
turned  in  at  the  Dupagny  steps  and  before  he  reached  the 
group  on  the  veranda  they  recognized  Peter  Withrow. 

Rose  allowed  herself  the  luxury  of  a  smile  that  embraced 
her  contempt  for  Laurence  Dupagny's  undisguised  eagerness 
to  welcome  a  man  whose  money  tempted  him.  Not  that 
she  disdained  money  herself,  for  as  she  put  her  cool  slim 
fingers  into  Peter's,  she  wondered  anxiously  if  he  would 
consent  to  bolster  one  of  Dupagny's  shaky  enterprises  with 
some  of  his  idle  thousands. 

In  the  slight  stir  of  this  arrival  the  soft  merriment  sub 
sided.  People  were  a  little  afraid  of  Peter  Withrow,  he 
had  an  uncertain,  caustic  trick  of  speech  that  sometimes  bit 
deep  beneath  vanity.  Ease  and  abandon  fled  at  his  approach 
and  Miss  Plumey  curled  herself  against  the  protection  of 
somebody's  knees. 

But  Peter  himself  knew  nothing  of  this.  It  was  a  summer 
night  and  he  was  lonely.  He  did  not  know  Rose  Dupagny 
very  well,  but  her  enigmatic  smile  promised  a  deeper  under 
standing  than  he  found  in  other  women. 

"We're  talking  about  old  Christy's  library,"  explained 
young  Wickersham.  "Harkness  says  it's  the  finest  in  the 
state." 

"He  should  know,"  responded  Peter,  dryly. 

Cleve  moved  restlessly.  "Complete,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
but  not  up  to  date,"  he  said.  "Hundreds  of  the  books  are 
useless." 

"Then  if  he  has  read  them  all,  he  should  make  a  perfectly 
splendid  police  judge,"  giggled  Miss  Plumey,  brightly. 
"Have  you  heard,  Mr.  Withrow?  He's  to  be  a  really, 


THE  THRESHOLD  41 

truly  judge  at  last.  You  men  mjist  all  vote  for  him.  He 
must  think  the  whole  town  is  dying  for  him  to  win.  That's 
part  of  the  joke." 

Peter  was  silent ;  then  he  said,  "I've  heard  about  it — 
yes.  It's  a  damned  shame.  I  wish  I  knew  the  man  who 
started  it " 

Laurence  Dupagny  interfered.  .  .  .  "Weil,  well,"  he 
said  in  his  smooth  voice1,  "who  cares  for  politics  in  this 
weather.  .  .  ."  He  drew  the  last  guest  into  the  masculine 
shelter  of  the  den,  and  the  veranda,  safe  from  Peter,  relaxed. 

"What  a  boor,"  gasped  Miss  Plumey.  "Who  would  think 
he  was  a  Harvard  man?" 

People  paired  off.  From  the  secluded  chairs  came  the 
gurgle  of  debutantes  and  the  seasoned  inflection  of  married 
flirts.  The  Wickersham  youth  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Ethel  Plumey,  and  in  an  effort  to  escape  declared  that 
he  must  go.  There  was  a  ripple  of  cruel  amusement  when 
she  claimed  this  intention  as  well. 

\Vhen  they  -were  gone  Rose  said  gayly  to  Cleve  Harkness, 
who  remained  at  her  side,  "It  will  be  all  over  town  to 
morrow  that  Peter  Withrow  swore  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 
Why  doesn't  he  behave  and  become  a  respectable  member 
of  society  ?" 

Cleve's  slight  restraint  had  vanished  long  ago  and  he 
was  able  to  summon  a  mood  that  met  her  own.  Rose 
Dupagny  was  more  charming  than  he  imagined  a  woman 
could  be,  and  he  was  dazzled  by  the  challenge  he  sometimes 
glimpsed  in  her  eyes.  Rose  wondered  what  was  beneath 
the  smooth  exterior  of  this  new  young  man  who  had  sud 
denly  become  a  person  of  importance  in  their  midst.  She 
admitted  his  good  looks,  but  many  men  were  good  looking 
without  interesting*  her.  She  had  always  been  careful  to 
hold  herself  in  the  feminine  role  while  secretly  smiling  over 


42  THE  THRESHOLD 

the  fatuity  of  her  admirers  who  could  not  see  that  she 
defended  herself  with  the  weapon  of  flattery.  It  was  so 
easy  to  win  men  that  she  pitied  Cleve,  thrust  without 
preparation  upon  the  spears  of  a  hundred  attractive  women. 
She  was  astonished  to  find  pity  an  element  in  her  interest 
which  centered  about  him.  She  felt  the  years  that  divided 
them.  They  were  not  many,  but  she  was  irrevocably  the 
elder.  She  wanted  to  advise  him,  to  warn  him  of  what 
she  knew  so  well,  and  to  tell  him  those  things  of  which  she 
thought  him  to  be  ignorant.  Tenderness  was  a  new  and 
dangerous  sensation  for  her.  She  remembered  distinctly 
all  the  stories  she  had  heard  of  his  childhood  spent  here  in 
Cresston  where  his  value  had  just  been  discovered.  His 
willingness  to  learn  from  her  was  an  added  novelty  and 
charm  in  their  relationship;  all  the  men  she  knew  believed 
so  thoroughly  in  themselves  and  resented  help  from  a 
woman  so  warmly.  .  .  .  Even  her  husband  who  had  been 
wrong  enough  times  to  shatter  the  most  rockbound  egotism, 
would  accept  nothing  from  her.  .  .  . 

There  was  an  excitement  in  this  incipient  friendship 
which  no  other  had  held  for  her.  She  found  the  entire 
formula  reversed  and  all  calculated  moves  made  valueless 
by  his  attitude  of  simple  and  frank  admiration.  The  flat 
tery  of  his  complete  submission  left  her  no  room  to  flatter 
him.  She  was  almost  embarrassed  by  his  respect.  But 
their  conversation  was  completely  innocuous  and  might  have 
been  overheard  by  the  world  without  interest.  During  the 
hour  which  both  remembered  for  days  they  spoke  of  the 
Country  Club  which  Cleve  had  just  joined  and  of  the  auto 
mobile  he  had  recently  ordered. 

"Peter  chose  it,"  he  admitted,  with  an  utter  ingenuous 
ness  that  acknowledged  poverty  without  shame.  "I  know 
nothing  about  them,  you  see,  and  he's  owned  a  half  a  dozen." 


THE  THRESHOLD  43 

He  hesitated,  plainly  making  up  his  mind  for  a  bold  question. 
"I  wonder  if  you'd  do  a  big  thing  for  me,  Mrs.  Dupagny?" 

She  murmured  assent,  her  quick  mind  leaping  to  a  dozen 
possibilities.  "I  want  you  to  try  it  out  with  me  when  it 
comes,"  he  hesitated.  "It's  only  a  very  small  one." 

"The  automobile !"  she  gasped,  realizing  where  her 
thoughts  had  led  her.  Then  she  laughed  indulgently. 
"What  a  child  you  are !  I  thought  you  were  about  to  ask 
for  the  moon.  Of  course  I  will.  Why  not?" 

While  they  were  laughing  over  this  Dupagny  and  Peter 
came  from  the  house.  Presently  the  two  young  men,  the 
last  of  a  lazy  procession,  went  down  the  street  together. 
Dupagny  leaned  over  the  high  back  of  Rose's  chair.  His 
face  was  close  enough  to  feel  the  warmth  of  her  hair  and 
the  coolness  of  her  cheek.  All  his  habitual  ill  humor  had 
vanished  and  there  was  wistful  appeal  in  the  way  he  tried 
to  draw  a  response  from  her. 

"I  believe  I'll  get  Withrow  in  on  that  deal  yet,"  he  said, 
bidding  for  her  favor.  "He's  discovered  that  I  keep  the 
right  brand  of  Scotch  and  his  respect  for  my  judgment  has 
multiplied.  If  I  can  handle  his  money  for  awhile,  you  won't 
have  to  worry  over  dressmaker's  bills  in  the  future.  I  will 
make  every  dollar  earn  three." 

Still  her  veiled  eyes  remained  away  from  him.  He  could 
not  tell  if  she  heard.  He  cupped  her  face  in  his  hands 
with  a  sort  of  mild  passion  and  forced  her  lips  upward  to 
his.  "Rose  !  Do  you  care  at  all — for  me  ?  For  our  .life 
together?  I  know  it's  been  rotten  at  times,  but  everything 
is  for  you.  Nothing  else  counts — " 

"Yes,  dear,  yes,"  she  soothed,  like  one  who  repeats  an 
old  story.  She  was  not  thinking  of  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

ANTONIA  loved  her  room,  but  it  was  beautiful  to  no 
eyes  but  her  own.  It  was  narrow  gabled  and  low 
roofed  and  the  floor  sighed  with  every  footstep  as  though 
other  feet,  long  dead,  had  returned  to  walk  there.  In  the 
spring  the  tops  of  fruit  trees  reached  the  dormer  windows 
and  touched  them  with  feathery  bloom  so  that  there  was  a 
riot  of  cplor  and  perfume,  and  the  old  walnut  pieces,  full  of 
gentle  curves  and  polishes,  had  the  air  of  age  benevolently 
watching  the  frolics  of  youth.  Antonia  loved  her  room 
most  in  spring. 

When  Mrs.  Christy  came  there  it  always  left  her  a  little 
tearful.  She  would  never  sit  in  the  brown  rocker  with  the 
curved  back,  for  she  knew  its  history  and  dreaded  a  fall  at 
her  age.  Her  idea  of  a  young  girl's  room  was  something 
in  bird's-eye  maple  with  swiss  curtains  and  a  good  Brussels 
rug.  Years  ago  when  Antonia  was  a  baby,  and  they  rocked 
summer  dusks  away  she  had  furnished  such  a  room  in  her 
fancy,  but  it  had  never  come  to  anything.  Antonia  herself 
had  grown  far  away  from  this  ideal  and  not  even  her 
mother  could  modify  her  to  such  a  background. 

It  pained  Mrs.  Christy  most  to  watch  Antonia  before 
her  dresser  brushing  her  hair.  She  could  never  understand 
why  this  monstrosity,  so  incongruous  to  slender  youth,  had 
found  its  w'ay  there  and  was  cherished.  But  to  Antonia 
it  was  a  dear  possession.  She  had  discovered  the  huge  piece 
of  furniture  and  rescued  it  from  the  ignominy  of  a  jam 

44 


THE  THRESHOLD  45 

closet  and  to  her  it  had  beauty.  The  dim  mirror  gave 
back  a  ghostly  reflection  and  the  drawer  handles,  carved 
of  solid,  polished  wood  were  shaped  like  the  knuckles  of  a 
closed  hand  so  that  in  touching  one  had  the  sensation  of 
clasping  cold  and  unresponsive  ringers.  To  one  less  vital 
this  might  have  been  depressing,  but  Antonia  thought  of 
her  bureau  merely  in  terms  of  affection  and  as  a  receptacle 
strong  and  secure  for  the  safeguarding  of  her  humble 
treasures. 

Her  dreams  were  curious  phantasies  at  this  time,  chaotic 
and  touched  with  the  fragrance  of  ^young  girlhood.  She 
must  have  possessed  a'  small  share  of  her  mother's  whimsical 
imagination,  for  these  idle  fancies  were  woven  with  quaint 
aircastles  built  from  the  traditions  of  her  family's  glory. 
There  were  times  when  the  Christy  pride  seemed  to  Antonia 
a  false  and  unworthy  idol,  but  she  could  not  admit  this  dis 
loyalty,  even  to  herself,  without  a  pang.  She  was  bred 
to  reverence  the  attitude  of  fifty  years  ago,  but  facing  the 
inconsistencies  of  the  present  she  could  not  always  believe 
in  it.  Youth  and  a  certain  strain  of  common  sense  inherited 
from  some  unromantic  progenitor,  demanded  more  than  she 
was  getting  out  of  life,  or  at  le'ast  an  accounting  from  the 
treasured  traditions  which  were  like  a  cross  upon  her  young 
shoulders. 

On  the  day  of  the  city  election  Mrs.  Christy,  approaching 
the  gabled  room  in  a  state  of  mind  divided  between  faint 
resentment  and  respect,  discovered  Antonia  sitting  by  the 
open  window,  where  the  green  leaves  of  the  plum  tree  tops 
formed  a  screen  from  the  sun,  with  a  ponderous  tome  upon 
her  knees.  The  overflow  of  the  Christy  library  was  packed 
away  in  the  attic  and  for  years  she  had  been  reading  these 
books  one  after  another  without  sequence,  absorbing  in  this 
way  a  vast  amount  of  knowledge  and  miscellaneous,  star- 


46  THE  THRESHOLD 

tling  data.  Her  mother  looked  fretted  when  she  saw  the 
musty  pages  of  the  book.  She  disapproved  of  such  reading 
and  was  of  the  fixed  opinion  that  law  books  contained  much 
information  highly  improper  for  the  minds  of  young  girls ; 
the  older  the  volume  the  more  certain  was  she  that  this  was 
the  case.  But  she  seldom  voiced  these  opinions.  Uncon 
sciously  she  and  Antonia  had  exchanged  places  years  before 
and  mingled  with  her  disapproval  was  a  sensation  of  awe. 
The  fact  that  Antonia  could  interpret  those  obscure  legal 
phrases  connected  with  the  transfer  of  property,  gave  her 
an  unmeasured  superiority  which  her  mother  recognized  and 
respected. 

The  subject  of  the  election  had  been  seldom  referred  to 
in  the  family,  though  Mrs.  Christy  innocently  betrayed  its 
paramount  importance  in  her  mind  by  assuming  toward  the 
judge  a  manner  usually  reserved  for  the  sickroom.  She 
presented  an  unbending  attitude  of  cheerful  optimism 
toward  the  future,  mildly  resenting  Antonia's  fierce  de 
nunciation  of  the  town  and  its  people  who  were  trying  to 
make  a  mockery  of  her  father.  For  Antonia  had  seen 
through  the  -mean  and  sorry  jest,  and  at  length  in  sick  pity 
she  desisted  from  trying  to  make  her  mother  see  also  what 
was  so  plain  to  her. 

"Your  father  is  one  of  the  smartest  men  Cresston  ever 
produced,"  declared  Mrs.  Christy  with  vehemence.  "He 
reads  Latin  and  Greek  as  easily  as  he  does  the  Cresston 
Times, — you've  seen  him  do  it.  He's  been  unappreciated  in 
this  town.  I  sometimes  think  a  family  can  live  too  long  in 
one  place.  Neither  the  Christys  nor  the  Saltwells  are  what 
they  once  were,  but  nobody  can  say  what  this  election  may 
lead  to.  When  I  saw  that  your  father  was  bound  to  accept  it, 
I  argued  it  out  with  him.  If  it  wasn't  necessary  to  have 
police  judges  we  wouldn't  have  them,  would  we?  And  if 


THE  THRESHOLD  47 

it's  a  necessary  office,  and  your  father  fills  it  better  than  any 
other  man  has  done,  it's  a  step  in  the  right  direction,  isn't 
it?" 

"And  poor  father  is  over  fifty,"  Antonia  said,  with  the 
pity  of  youth.  "Oh,  mother,  how  simple  and  sweet  you  are, 
— or  are  you  simple,  I  wonder?  Aren't  you  deeper  than  the 
rest  of  us  who  storm  and  rage  at  Fate  ?" 

"I've  always  found  resentment  didn't  pay,"  Mrs.  Christy 
returned,  with  the  air  of  a  philosopher.  "If  your  father 
had  resented  the  way  Cresston  people  have  treated  him,  he 
wouldn't  have  this  chance  to  heap  coals  of  fire  upon  their 
heads." 

It  was  impossible  to  combat  Mrs.  Christy  when  she  was 
determined  to  be  pleased  and  Antonia  was  far  from  this 
wish.  She  met  her  mother's  look  of  innocent  triumph  with 
a  smile.  She  was  reserving  herself  for  a  struggle  that  must 
come  later,  and  Mrs.  Christy's  ebullitions  aroused  in  her 
nothing  more  than  a  spirit  of  sadness,  a  foreboding  of  the 
time  when  she  must  put  her  strength  against  the  love  that 
bound  her  wings. 

Mrs.  Christy  sat  down  recklessly  without  noticing  that 
her  choice  had  fallen  upon  the  dangerous  brown  rocker. 
"Well,  child,"  she  said  with  a  brisk  air  of  completion,  "in 
a  few  hours  now  we  shall  know  everything.  I've  made  a 
blackberry  pie.  I  hope  nothing  will  happen  to  irritate  your 
father.  This  means  far  more  to  him  than  you  can  im 
agine." 

"What  can  it  mean,"  said  Antonia,  slowly,  "except  that 
all  these  years  he  has  been — mistaken?  What  a  frighten 
ing  thought  that  is !  To  go-  through  life — mistaken,  because 
of  empty  prejudices ;  following  little  paths  opened  by  dead 
and  gone  people,  when  all  the  time  one  might  be  building 
wide  highways  for  oneself." 


48  THE  THRESHOLD 

Mrs.  Christy  was  scandalized ;  "Little  paths !"  she  echoed 
indignantly.  "Are  you  speaking  of  your  Grandfather 
Lemuel  Christy's  career  in  that  disrespectful  way?  Upon 
my  word,  Antonia,  you  have  the  oddest  ideas  for  a  young 
girl !  I  suppose  you  would  be  pleased  if  your  father  kept  a 
harness  shop."  She  breathed  deeply. 

"I  should,"  Antonia  answered  calmly,  "if  he  made  good 
harness." 

"That  is  the  point  exactly,"  cried  her  mother  instantly. 
"Your  father,  with  Lemuel  Christy's  example  before  him, 
will  mete  out  justice,  even  if  it  is  to  the  lowest  classes, — 
people  who  get  themselves  arrested  in  low  brawls.  Surely, 
Antonia,  justice  is  as  necessary  to  that  class  as  to  those 
higher  up.  Your  father  will  show  Cresston  what  it  means 
to  be  a  Christy,  even  if  the  office  they  offer  him  isn't  all  it 
should  be." 

Antonia  said  nothing.  She  was  ashamed.  Sometimes 
her  mother,  with  her  simple  childish  reasoning,  had  the 
power  to  humiliate  her,  though  Mrs.  Christy  never  dreamed 
of  her  success.  But  after  a  moment  Antonia  discovered 
that  she  was  not  convinced.  She  closed  the  book  upon  her 
knees,  knowing  that  the  time  had  come  for  the  destruction 
of  the  peace  between  them.  "Mother,"  she  said,  "you  and 
father  have  not  been  fair  to  us, — to  Donnie  and  me.  Why 
do  you  forget  us  when  you  insist  upon  justice?  Haven't 
we  the  right  to  a  home  where  things  are  paid  for?  Why 
does  father  think  that  he  can  live  on  credit  all  his  life — 
credit  furnished  by  a  dead  man's  name,  and  then  pride  him 
self  on  distributing  justice  to  people  who  have  only  been 
guilty  of  trivial  wrongs, — like  wife-beating !" 

"Antonia!"  Mrs.  Christy  was  pale.  This  sounded  like 
blasphemy.  "What  are  you  saying?  You  have  read  those 


THE  THRESHOLD  49 

dreadful  books  until  it  has  made  you  unmaidenly.  Your 
father — you  have  no  respect  for  him — you  dishonor  him 
with  such  words.  How  do  you  know — how  can  you  know 
— what  has  brought  him  to  this?  Your  poor  father — you 
never  loved  him  as  a  daughter  should — "  She  began  to 
weep,  with  her  worn  hands  before  her  face. 

"Perhaps  not  as  a  daughter,"  cried  Antonia  passionately, 
"but  as  a  son !  Oh,  mother,  you  cannot  know  how  I  have 
longed  to  help !  If  I  were  his  son  he  would  let  me  help — 
he  would  have  the  pride  in  me  that  he  has  lost  in  himself. 
I  want  to  bring  our  family  back  to  what  it  was.  I  want  to 
make  them  give  him  respect,  if  not  honors.  The  sorry  jest 
they  played  should  be  turned  upon  them.  Love  him !  I 
love  him  enough  to  give  my  life  to  the  work  of  saving  our 
name  from  ignominious  failure — 

She  stopped  with  a  despairing  gesture,  pressing  her  hands 
against  her  breast.  Her  mother  did  not  understand.  An 
tonia  had  been-  telling  her  cherished  thoughts  to  incompre 
hension. 

But  neither  did  Antonia  understand !  The  older  woman 
looked  at  her  sadly.  The  intolerance  of  youth  and  its  blind 
ness !  If  Mrs.  Christy  had  put  her  thought  in  words  she 
might  have  said  that  youth  and  beauty  were  not  meant  for 
sacrifice  like  this,  nor  would  life  let  it  happen-.  She  smiled 
wistfully,  recalling  the  facts  that  Antonia  passed  over  with 
out  consideration,  but  a  delicate  shame  and  incoherence 
prevented  such  allusion, — that,  and  the  certainty  that  so 
young  a  girl  could  not  understand.  Instead  she  said 
primly : 

"Some  day  you  will  be  married  with  a  home  of  your  own, 
and  then  you  will  understand  what  is  due  the  head  of  a 
family.  I  must  say,  Antonia,  there  are  times  when  you  seem 


SO  THE  THRESHOLD 

very  selfish.  You  are  actually  planning  to  trouble  your 
father  at  the  very  moment  when  his  mind  is  harassed  by  his 
new  office.  He  needs  all  his  strength  and  calm  to  meet  these 
conditions." 

When  she  was  alone  once  more  Antonia  did  not  return 
to  her  book.  She  sat  quietly  for  a  while  with  her  smooth 
chin  resting  on  the  little  hollow  of  her  neck.  Presently  she 
went  over  to  the  bureau  with  the  handles  like  closed 
knuckles.  She  sat  on  the  floor  and  drew  out  one  of  the 
lower  drawers,  and  from  the  bottom  of  this  unearthed  a 
white  cardboard  box  tied  with  a  ribbon. 

She  turned  the  contents  over  in  her  hand  bit  by  bit. 
There  was  nothing  there  but  ordinary  keepsakes;  powdery 
dried  flowers,  a  button  from  a  soldier's  uniform,  and  a 
dance  program  covered  with  scribbled  names  on  the  back 
of  which  was  written — "I'd  rather  dance  with  you,"  in  a 
boyish  scrawl.  The  last  thing  she  looked  at  was  a  shallow 
package  of  letters.  All  these  small  mementos  came  from 
Cleve  Harkness. 

They  had  not  met  since  the  night  when  Bonnie's  fence 
corner  had  been  usurped.  Cresston  was  a  small  city,  but 
its  environs  embraced  widely  separated  social  groups. 
Cleve,  son  of  the  second  hand  furniture  dealer,  was  a  per 
son  far  removed  from  Antonia's  orbit  and  only  chance 
could  bring  them  together.  In  the  daily  record  of  the 
town's  social  maneuvers  she  read  his  name  as  guest  at  this 
dinner  or  that  dance;  he  belonged  to  the  Golf  Club;  he  was 
everywhere  that  pretty  women  congregated;  he  had  sud 
denly  become  a  person  of  gay  importance.  She  knew  that 
he  had  moved  from  Mrs.  Miller's  boarding  house  on  Thelma 
Avenue  where  he  had  lived  so  long,  and  this  fact  alone 
seemed  to  separate  them  eternally.  .  .  . 


THE  THRESHOLD  51 

She  was  beginning  to  think  of  him  as  she  had  when  he 
was  in  France, — a  distant  personality,  not  touching  upon  her 
own  life  except  through  shadowry  memories.  But  now 
something  her  mother  had  said  wakened  her  heart  for  a 
moment  to  a  poignant  thrill  which  left  her  saddened  and 
thoughtful  as  it  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  fireplace  in  the  middle  room  of  the  Christy  house 
was  all  that  remained  of -the  original  building,  which 
had  been  a  pretentious  mansion  in  the  days  when  houses 
were  really  houses.  Fire  having  laid  its  perishable  structure 
in  ashes,  another  house,  humble  and  mean  in  comparison, 
had  taken  its  place,  apologizing  from  year  to  year  with  the 
promise  of  better  things,  but  gradually  settling  itself  around 
what  had  been  the  heart  of  the  great  house, — a  heart  which 
lived  on  in  spite  of  ignominy. 

In  summer  time  the  fireplace  was  a  gaunt  and  blackened 
cavern  which  in  years  past  Mrs.  Christy  tried  to  brighten 
with  green  branches  and  poinsettias  made  of  red  crinkled 
paper.  This  habit,  however,  had  been  abandoned  and  now 
there  was  nothing  to  break  the  cold  monotony  of  the  broad 
granite  slabs,  cut  from  the  quarry  which  once  belonged  to 
the  family,  and  which  furnished  Cresston  with  half  its 
foundations.  The  iron  crane  still  hung  in  the  chimney,  but 
the  fire  ovens  where  bread  had  been  baked  and  the  spit  that 
could  turn  a  quarter  of  beef  as  easily  as  a  pullet,  were 
banished  to  the  attic.  Mrs.  Christy  looked  at  them  now  and 
then,  and  reflected  sadly  on  the  waste  and  profligacy  of  those 
days. 

But  in  winter  the  fireplace  could  be  magnificent.  While 
the  farm  remained  and  wood  was  plentiful  it  was  possible 
to  pile  as  many  logs  as  three  men  could  carry  upon  the  tre 
mendous  firedogs,  whose  sooty  smirk  remained  changeless 

52 


THE  THRESHOLD  53 

under  incalculable  burdens.  But  the  memory  of  even  those 
days  was  beginning  to  grow  dim.  In  the  narrowing  of  life, 
even  had  fuel  been  at  hand,  it  would  have  seemed  almost 
criminal  to  feed  the  voracious  maw  of  that  black  grave  with 
hickory  and  oak  .  .  .  but  there  were  times  when  Mrs. 
Christy  was  unable  to  pay  the  gas  bill  and  then  the  orchard 
and  crumbling  fences  would  be  surreptitiously  robbed  and 
a  small  fire,  like  the  dying  flicker  of  an  incredibly  great  eye, 
would  live  for  a  little  while  upon  the  altar  that  had  known 
past  greatness. 

On  the  night  of  the  election,  though  it  was  summer  time, 
such  a  fire  burned  there,  far  back  between  the  dogs  who 
disdained  to  admit  its  existence.  Earlier  in  the  evening 
Roscoe  Christy  sawed  a  dead  limb  from  an  apple  tree  and 
broke  it  to  pieces  in  his  hands.  He  lighted  the  fire  in 
silence  and  when  night  came  sat  before  it  in  the  deep  chair 
that  had  been  his  grandfather's.  At  irregular  intervals  he 
would  lift  his  somber  glance  to  the  great  silver  watch  which 
hung  on  a  deep  bedded  hook  just  above  his  head.  As  he 
marked  the  passage  of  time,  the  melancholy  of  his  passive 
waiting  settled  into  such  gloom  that  at  last  he  looked  no 
more. 

The  watch  had  always  hung  there  against  the  chimney. 
It  was  as  large  and  thick  as  a  man's  doubled  hands,  and  it  had 
been  manufactured  in  the  days  when  a  watch  meant  some 
thing  beside  idle  frippery.  In  defiance  of  modern  clock- 
maker's  skill  it  continued  to  mark  time  through  the  years 
when  lesser  timepieces  came  into  the  family  life,  tarried  for 
a  little  while,  and  went  the  way  of  broken  springs  and  worn 
out  mechanism.  The  births  and  deaths  that  centered  around 
the  middle  room  had  been  marked  by  the  watch  ...  its  in 
exorable  hands  had  been  watched  in  anguish  as  they  meas 
ured  the  moments  when  Roscoe  Christy's  first  child  lay 


54  THE  THRESHOLD 

dying  on  its  mother's  knees  .  .  .  the  watch  never  lied.  It 
had  kept  strange  vigils,  and  now  that  the  family  had  been 
humbled,  it  pointed  serenely  to  the  hour  of  their  fallen 
pride. 

Antonia  and  her  mother  sat  sewing  beneath  the  hard 
radiance  of  the  gas  lamp  which  increased  the  heat  of  the 
room  already  made  uncomfortable  by  the  small  fire.  The 
untrimmed  trees  shut  away  what  breeze  might  have  pene 
trated  the  open  window,  but  an  occasional  insect  that  had 
wandered  from  the  orgy  around  the  arc  light  on  the  corner, 
beat  its  life  out  against  the  wire  screen  with  a  dull,  booming 
sound.  Neither  of  them  dreamed  of  objecting  to  the  un 
seasonable  fire,  for  they  understood  why  it  had  been  built 
and  bore  their  discomfort  without  complaint.  In  the  past 
when  an  honor  had  been  paid  the  Christys  there  had  always 
been  great  bonfires  and  barbecues  made  by  the  childish,  de 
lighted  slaves,  and  friends  had  come  from  distances  to  cele 
brate  the  triumph.  But  now  the  handful  of  rotten  apple 
boughs  was  all  the  last  Christy  could  afford  to  make  the 
sorry  honor  paid  him  at  the  end  of  his  submerged  years. 

"Some  one  is  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Christy,  in  an  excited 
whisper. 

The  gate  had  closed  with  a  clash  of  rusty  hinges  and  foot 
steps  came  along  the  flagged  walk  and  onto  the  echoing 
veranda.  A  hand  touched  the  knocker.  Mrs.  Christy 
arose  in  a  flutter.  "It  must  be  a  caller.  Dear  me,  An 
tonia,  you  have  on  that  old  pink  waist."  Her  eyes  probed 
into  her  daughter's  soul.  "Who  do  you  suppose  it  can  be? 
If  it  is  some  one  to  see  you  .  .  .  this  room  is  stifling, — 
you  will  have  to  sit  on  the  porch." 

Antonia  looked  pleadingly  at  her  mother.  It  was  a  fic 
tion  of  Mrs.  Christy's  that  her  daughter  discouraged  eager 
young  men  who  would  otherwise  have  overwhelmed  her 


THE  THRESHOLD  55 

with  attentions ;  both  knew  that  this  visitor  was  there  for 
another  purpose,  but  Mrs.  Christy  refused  to  heed  the  mute 
entreaty  of  Antonia's  eyes.  "I  hope  your  father  will  be 
pleasant,"  she  whispered. 

The  judge  got  heavily  on  his  feet  as  the  knocker  sounded 
hollowly  for  the  second  time.  "I  will  answer  the  bell,"  he 
said,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  two  women  star 
ing  helplessly  at  each  other.  They  could  not  remember 
when  he  had  done  such  a  thing  before,  and  a  sense  of  mis 
giving  mingled  with  their  anticipation.  Listening  intently, 
they  heard  the  greeting  of  men's  voices  ;  the  brief  monologue 
of  the  visitor  explaining  the  purpose  of  his  coming  and  the 
deeper  rumble  of  the  judge's  invitation  to  enter. 

"Peter  Withrow, — and  his  father!"  whispered  Mrs. 
Christy  hurriedly.  As  the  three  appeared  on  the  threshold 
her  tragic  astonishment  changed  to  the  most  flattering  wel 
come.  "Why,  Colonel,  what  a  surprise,"  she  exclaimed,  "and 
Peter,  too."  At  the  same  moment  she  deftly  cleared  a  chair 
of  its  impediments — widths  of  a  made  over  skirt — and  thrust 
the  sewing  basket  out  of  sight.  She  beamed  upon  the 
Colonel  and  he  returned  her  greeting  with  equal  cordiality. 
He  had  been  a  great  beau  of  the  Saltwell  girls  in  days  gone 
by,  and  for  simple  souls  like  his  there  are  no  intervening 
years. 

Peter  remained  standing  in  the  doorway  while  the  older 
people  spoke  together.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Antonia 
who  blushed  faintly  and  smiled  in  answer  to  his  smile. 
They  exchanged  a  tolerant  glanee  which  found  excuses  for 
Mrs.  Christy's  revived  coquetry  and  the  pomposity  of  the 
two  old  men  who  pretended  to  treat  each  other  with  for 
mality. 

When  the  Colonel  accepted  the  chair  with  magnificent 
courtesy  he  said,  "We  stopped  in  to  tell  you  the  election 


56  THE  THRESHOLD 

news,  judge.  Naturally,  it  was  a  complete  victory  for  the 
Democratic  party.  .  .  .  The  whole  ticket  elected  without  a 
flaw — straight  down." 

Roscoe  Christy  was  standing  beside  his  chair  and  sud 
denly  his  knees  seemed  to  collapse.  .  .  .  He  sat  down 
heavily.  .  .  .  "Straight — down,"  he  repeated. 

Peter  spoke  from  the  background.  .  .  .  "Father  should 
have  said  'straight  through'.  ...  Of  course  you  went  over 
easily,  judge.  There  was  practically  no  opposition." 

Mrs.  Christy  began  to  fan  herself  nervously.  "Dear  me," 
she  said  in  a  light,  conversational  tone,  "it  is  warm  for  so 
early  in  summer.  Why  you  gentlemen  should  choose  such 
a  time  for  excitement  over  elections,  is  beyond  me." 

But  no  one  w'as  listening.  Antonia  dropped  her  work  and 
looked  anxiously  at  her  father  who  had  risen  and  begun 
slowly  to  pace  the  floor.  ...  As  if  he  were  alone,  the  judge 
began  to  speak  in  an  angry  monotonous,  voice  that  shut  the 
others  away  like  a  wall.  .  .  .  "They've  elected  me — me — to 
their  petty  office, — to  hold  court  over  loafers  and  prostitutes 
.  .  .  me !  A  Christy  sits  upon  the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder 
with  his  feet  in  the  street  mud  .  .  .  and  I  have  lived  among 
them  for  fifty  years !  This  town  .  .  .  part  of  it  starving 
in  poverty  and  the  other  half  reveling  in  infamy  .  .  .  living 
on  borrowed  money,  stealing  when  it  has  to  pay  .  .  .  has 
done  this  to  me.  .  .  ." 

Antonia's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  went  to  his  side  and 
touched  his  arm.  .  .  .  The  moment  seemed  to  bridge  the 
unspoken  antagonism  that  existed  between  them.  "But  you 
can  refuse.  .  .  ." 

He  surveyed  her  impersonally;  she  might  have  been  a 
stranger  who  ventured  to  interrupt  his  mood ;  then  with  a 
sudden  return  to  normality  he  resumed  his  seat  and  thanked 
the  Colonel  briefly  for  bringing  the  news. 


THE  THRESHOLD  57 

"Cresston  needs  cleaning  up,"  he  said,  without  a  trace  of 
his  previous  emotion.  "It's  no  longer  a  fit  place  to  raise  our 
children  in.  ...  I'll  tell  you,  Jasper,  there  is  a  place  in 
Horton  Street  that  should  be  closed  in  the  interests  of  the 
public.  A  pool  hall.  A  low  place  where  any  one  who  has 
a  dime  is  welcome.  There  is  a  crowd  around  the  door 
day  and  night.  Such  a  thing  would  not  have  been  allowed 
in  our  day.  and  if  I'm  to  be  police  judge,  I  warn  you  now 
that  offenders  will  not  find  it  easy  going  in  my  jurisdic 
tion.  .  .  ."  One  unacquainted  with  him  might  have  sus 
pected  joviality. 

The  Colonel  was  embarrassed.  He  could  not  so  readily 
forget  the  shaken  voice  which  preceded  this  speech,  and  it 
hurt  him  to  see  Antonia  slighted.  He  sent  her  a  caressing 
glance  and  one  of  entreaty  to  his  son. 

"I'll  try  to  be  good,"  Peter  promised,  coming  to  his 
father's  aid,  "but  if  you  catch  me  napping,  sir,  remember 
that  I  have  just  set  up  housekeeping." 

"With  young  Harkness.  Yes.  I  trust  your  young  firm 
has  already  put  off  its  swaddling  clothes."  With  old- 
fashioned  courtesy  he  placed  the  conversation  on  an  im 
personal  basis  and  soon  the  three  elder  persons  were  speak 
ing  of  old  times  and  old  days  that  excluded  Antonia  and 
Peter,  and  left  them  free  to  slip  away  to  the  hushed  dark 
ness  of  the  veranda  steps.  Peter,  pretending  to  look  at  the 
low  moon,  saw  its  aura  above  his  companion's  smooth 
hair. 

"How  kind  you  are,"  said  Antonia,  lifting  grateful  eyes, 
"and  how  cruel  the  rest  of  the  world  is!  You  saw — how 
hurt  he  was." 

There  was  a  faint  deepening  in  Peter's  gray  eyes  as  he 
returned  her  look.  "The  world  is  not  cruel,"  he  answered 
thoughtfully.  "It  is  only  a  small  boy  who  laughs  when  an- 


58  THE  THRESHOLD 

other  is  in  pain.  You  must  laugh,  too,  and  presently  you 
will  forget  about  the  pain." 

She  shook  her  head.     "No  one  has  ever  laughed  at  you." 

"Haven't  they?"  He  made  her  look  at  him.  "Haven't 
you  heard  them  say  that  I  am  a  fool, — and  worse  ?  Oh,  yes, 
you  have.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes.  Sometimes,  when  I  drink 
too  much — or  when  they  think  I  do,  they  laugh  at  me  be 
cause  I  don't  hide  away  in  some  safe  retreat  until  it  is 
over,  concealing  my  weakness  from  them.  They  laugh,  An- 
tonia." 

She  could*  Hot  deny  this.  "But  why — why — should  you 
do  this,  Peter?  It  is  when  people  make  mistakes  blindly 
that  it  is  pitiful.  But  you  are  not  blind." 

"Nor  are  you.  Why  do  you  insist  on  reading  law  when 
you  could  be  such  a  delightful  woman  ?" 

This  was  old  ground  and  they  loved  to  fight  over  every 
inch  of  it.  Peter  leaned  against  a  worm  eaten  pillar  and 
prepared  for  argument.  Antonia  was  a  quick  antagonist 
and  he  found  himself  losing  the  thread  of  their  talk  when 
the  moonlight  touched  her  face. 

"You  see,  Antonia,"  he  said,  "the  most  ludicrous  thing  in 
the  world  is  failure,  and  the  most  tragic.  You  can  afford 
to  look  like  a  harlequin  if  you  make  it  pay,  but  no  clown 
ever  amused  his  audience  as  much  as  the  tragedian  who 
muffs  his  lines." 

"Why  are  you  so  sure  that  I  should  fail?  Oh,  Peter, 
don't  be  like  the  others." 

He  looked  at  her  lazily.  "My  dear  girl,  as  long  as  the 
world  moves  and  men  breathe,  they  are  going  to  forget  how 
well  a  girl  knows  Greek  if  she  has  long  eyelashes." 

She  answered  him  with  such  deep  seriousness  that  he 
laughed,  admitting  tacitly  that  he  did  not  mean  all  he  said. 


THE  THRESHOLD  59 

Antonia  sighed  with  relief.  "If  you  were  really  in  earnest, 
Peter—" 

"Would  you  care  ?" 

"It  would  hurt.  You  are  the  only  person  I  can  talk  to, — 
about  myself,  I  mean.  It  would  mean  losing  you." 

When  he  spoke  there  was  a  subtle  change  in  his  tone. 
"You  will  not  lose  me,  Antonia.  I  shall  always  be  a  safe, 
reliable  audience.  Do  you  want  to  tell  me  something  to 
night  ?" 

His  jesting  mood  was  gone,  as  was  the  indefinable  quality 
which  gave  her  a  breathless,  uncertain  sensation  of  standing 
too  near  a  hidden  explosive.  He  was  once  more  the  quiet, 
tractable  Peter  who  always  sympathized.  She  reveled  in 
that  rare  treat  for  a  woman, — a  man  who  listens  without 
making  love  or  becoming  bored  by  her  confidence. 

"I  want  to — work,"  she  said  in  a  suppressed  voice.  "It 
is  the  only  way,  Peter  .  .  .  and  father  will  not  let  me  work 
with  him, — not  even  copy  old  papers  so  that  I  might  learn  a 
little.  I  shall  have  to  go  elsewhere.  I  have  read  and 
studied  all  I  can  alone.  ...  I  have  thought  it  all  out. 
There  must  be  firms  who  would  let  me  typewrite  for  them 
while  I  read.  I  would  work  so  hard.  .  .  ."  She  stopped 
abruptly ;  the  same  thought  occurred  to  both. 

"Cleve  Harkness  found  it  easy  enough,"  Peter  said  dryly. 
"He  will  be  a  successful  man  and  he  has  worked  every  inch 
of  the  way." 

"Father  was  the  first  to  help  him,"  mused  Antonia  with 
a  trace  of  bitterness, — though  not  for  Cleve.  "Why  should 
he  be  willing  to  give  a  stranger  and  deny  me, — because  I  am 
a  woman  ?" 

"That  is  why,"  he  answered  gently,  "because  you  are  a 
woman.  Your  father  is  a  slave  to  tradition  and  so  are  mil- 


60  THE  THRESHOLD 

lions  of  other  people.  The  world  would  be  reorganized  in 
a  day  if  it  wasn't  for  this  power  that  is  stronger  than  all  of 
us.  It's  the  influence  of  our  ancestors  on  the  subconscious 
mind.  He  cannot  accept  you  as  a  lawyer  because  there  is 
a  horde  of  masculine  Christys  in  the  Beyond  who  clamor 
against  it." 

After  a  pause  she  said  quietly,  "Will  you  let  me  work  for 
you,  Peter?" 

"Good  Lord!"  He  sat  erect.  She  could  see  the  flush 
that  stole  over  his  face.  "Work  for  me  ?  What  made  you 
think  of  such  a  thing — " 

"Because  I  must  begin  somewhere,  and — and — I  know 
you  are  not  afraid  of  ancestors." 

They  both  burst  out  laughing  at  that.  Peter  was  known 
to  be  the  black  sheep  of  the  Withrow  family.  For  years  it 
had  been  prophesied  that  when  the  judgment  day  arrived 
the  family  lots  would  be  found  to  be  a  place  of  chaos  with 
Withrows  who  had  turned  in  their  graves  because  of  him. 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  he  replied,  doubting  her  earnestness, 
"but  remember,  the  Withrows  are  a  gentler  clan  than  the 
Christys." 

"Hush,"  whispered  Antonia,  without  a  smile.  The  house 
door  was  opening  and  they  heard  the  others  saying  good 
night. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  Sheridan  Building  where  Peter  Wi throw  and  Cleve 
Harkne'ss  had  their  offices  was  one  of  the  new  struc 
tures  to  which  Cresston  pointed  with  pride.  There  had  been 
a  great  deal  of  building  in  the  last  six  years,  but  nothing 
which  approached  the  Sheridan  in  size  or  magnificence. 
There  was,  if  the  truth  be  spoken,  rather  too  much  of  space 
and  elegance  to  justify  the  demands  of  its  clientele,  and  the 
stockholders  made  \vry  faces  when  they  looked  over  the 
rental  list.  The  Sheridan  was  one  of  Laurence  Dupagny's 
enterprises,  and  as  usual  he  Could  not  endure  success.  Build 
ing  was  a  popular  investment  when  the  Sheridan  was  pro 
moted,  and,  finding  the  going  easy,  Dupagny  promptly 
doubled  his  original  plans  and  an-  office  building  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  population  was,  the  result. 

Cresston  staggered  under  the  load  of  emulation.  The 
Square  threw  off  the  lethargy  of  its  rotting  timbers  and  by 
the  time  Dupagny's  mammoth  enterprise*  was  completed 
there  were  rivals  in  the  field  which  drew  from  its  legitimate 
supply  of  professional  men. 

The  war  finished  what  overbuilding  began.  Dining  two 
or  three  lean  years  the  tall  white  structure  on  the  northeast 
corner  of  Christy  Square  stood  as  a  reproachful  monument 
to  the  shortsightedness  of  its  promoters.  Men  who  had 
money  tied  up  in  those  empty,  echoing  walls  thought  sorrow 
fully  of  a  dozen  better  war  investments,  and  Laurence 
Dupagny  found  himself  an  unpopular  person  where  once  he 
had  been  a  prophet. 

61 


02  THE  THRESHOLD 

But  this  period  passed  in  Cresston  as  elsewhere.  Sud 
denly  it  was  all  over  and  the  returning  began.  The  places  of 
those  who  did  not  come  back  were  washed  with  the  tides 
of  forgetfulness  and  in  a  little  while  all  the  phases  of  life 
were  functioning  as  if  the  interlude  had  never  been. 

But  Cresston  was  still  overbuilt.  The  arrears  of  three 
years  of  inanition  had  to  be  met  somehow  and  the  manager 
of  the  Sheridan  met  it  in  a  unique  way.  He  turned  the 
surplus  space,  for  which  Laurence  Dupagny's  over  vivid 
imagination  was  responsible,  into  living  quarters  for  his 
bachelor  tenants.  The  new  idea  was  adopted  with  en 
thusiasm  and  in  six  months  the  innovation  was  a  success. 
It  became  the  smartest  thing  possible  to  keep  apartments 
at  the  Sheridan,  and  at  almost  any  hour  of  the  day  a  line 
of  motors  was  parked  before  the  wide  entrance  on  Hewlett 
Avenue.  The  Country  Club  set  rather  adopted  it  as  their 
own,  and  the  operators  at  the  two  stations  struck  up  one  of 
those  odd  wire  friendships  for  which  the  telephone  is  re 
sponsible.  They  knew  everybody's  business  and  were  dan 
gerously  familiar  with  all  the  love  affairs  of  the  moment. 
The  town  had  its  quota  of  gossips  who  found  material  to 
their  taste  in  the  peculiar  management  of  the  apartment- 
office  building:  but,  so  far,  a  certain  code  of  loyalty  pre 
served  the  secrets — if  there  were  any — of  the  faction  whose 
interests  centered  around  this  place. 

It  was  not  easy  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the  lease, 
only  half  of  which  appeared  on  paper,  but  Cleve  Harkness 
was  admitted  without  question.  His  rooms,  a  very  charm 
ing  suite,  were  directly  behind  the  front  offices  shared  by 
Peter  Withrow  and  himself,  and  the  two  windows  of  his 
sitting  room  faced  on  Hewlett  Avenue.  They  were  desir 
able  rooms  and  he  might  not  have  possessed  them  so  easily 
but  for  a  whim  of  Peter's. 


THE  THRESHOLD  63 

For  a  time  Peter  had  entertained  the  idea  of  living  in 
them  himself,  and  the  lease  was  made  out  in  his  name,  but 
for  some  reason  the  project  was  abandoned  and  Qeve  fell 
heir  to  the  unused  apartment.  Peter  continued  to  live  in 
the  tall  old  Withrow  house  on  Armitage  Street.  He  offered 
the  whimsical  explanation  that  old  Daniel,  the  colored 
house  servant,  had  refused  to  move  with  him,  and  as  Daniel 
had  been  accustomed  to  undressing  him  since  childhood  and 
owned  a  talent  for  removing  boots  which  belonged  to  no 
other  valet.  Peter  must  perforce  remain  where  Daniel  was 
at  hand. 

Cleve  could  never  have  afforded  such  luxury  if  the  way 
had  not  been  smoothed  for  him.  He  admitted  this  with  his 
usual  boyish  frankness  when  he  thanked  his  partner  for  the 
loan — that  was  his  own  word — of  the  gray  and  gold  rooms. 
For  a  time  he  mentioned  the  rooms  and  the  roadster  every 
day ;  the  smart  little  car  was  another  pleasure  which  Peter's 
friendship  made  possible — but  after  a  few  weeks  he  entered 
upon  these  things  as  though  they  were  his  by  right  and  Peter, 
for  one,  was  glad  to  hear  the  last  of  it.  The  role  of  bene 
factor  bored  and  embarrassed  him. 

"But  don't  think  I'll  ever  forget,  old  man,"  said  Cleve 
affectionately.  "There's  mighty  few  fellows  with  yottr  kind 
of  luck  who  remember  the  rest  of  us.  I  shan't  forget." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  Peter  returned,  with  a  faint  expres 
sion  of  distaste.  He  hated  to  be  reminded  that  he  owed  his 
money  to  circumstance,  and  his  friends  seemed  to  have  the 
habit  of  referring  to  this. 

At  five  minutes  to  twelve,  one  morning  in  July,  Cleve 
emerged,  spick  and  span  from  his  living  rooms  and  entered 
the  office  from  the  private  door  that  connected  with  his 
suite.  Simultaneously  a  key  turned  in  the  outer  door  and 
Peter  appeared.  That  it  was  the  first  appearance  of  both  of 


64  THE  THRESHOLD 

them  that  morning  was  proven  by  the  white  shower  of  mail 
on  the  floor  where  it  had  fallen  from  the  chute. 

The  two  young  men  confronting  each  other,  indisputably 
guilty  of  neglecting  business,  eyed  one  another  in  slight  con 
fusion  for  a  moment,  but  .being  equally  culpable  relapsed 
into  weak  grins  of  mutual  confession. 

Peter  was  perhaps  a  shade  more  contrite,  for  he  was 
thinking  less  of  Cleve's  dilatoriness  than  of  his  own  shame 
ful  backsliding.  Peter  was  not  groomed,  nor  was  he  spick 
and  span.  His  gray  suit  was  crumpled  and  spotted,  and  his 
collar  was  not  fresh  nor  his  tie  well  set.  Plainly  Daniel's 
hand  was  absent  from  its  accustomed  duties.  Peter  had 
not  shaved  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  his  chin  was  lost  be 
neath  an  ugly,  brown  stubble  which  changed  his  pleasant 
countenance  to  something  sinister  and  strange.  .  .  .  His  gray 
eyes  were  bloodshot  and  yellowed,  and  he  turned  them  away 
from  Cleve's  reproachful  face  as  though  the  sight  of  such 
rectitude  sickened  and  confused  him.  Without  a  greeting 
he  stopped  and  gathered  up  the  scattered  letters  and  went 
over  to- his,  desk  with  them. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Cleve  followed  and  accepted 
his  own  share  which  Peter  surrendered  in  silence.  Cleve 
had  been  on  his  way  to  the  street,  but  he  put  his  hat  and 
stick  aside  and  sat  down  to  read  his  letters. 

It  was  a  task  soon  finished.  There  were  two  or  three 
envelopes  of  purely  personal  character,  one  of  them  scented 
with  White  Lilac,  and  this  with,  the  others  he  put  away 
contemptuously  in  a  little  drawer  already  half  filled.  "They 
must  think  I  am  a  fool,"  he  grumbled. 

Peter  showed  a  like  indifference  to  his  correspondence, 
or  perhaps  his  disinclination  to  go  into  it  was  merely  physical. 
He  pushed  it  aside,  collected  the  loose  papers  on  his  desk 


THE  THRESHOLD  65 

into  an  untidy  heap,  and  broke  the  heavy  silence  which  had 
existed  since  their  entrance. 

"So  you  see,  I  fell  off  the  water  wagon  after  all,"  he 
said  in  a  tone  that  admitted  and  defied  criticism.  It  was 
as  if  he  dared  his  friend  to  disapprove  of  that  which  bent 
his  spirit  in  deepest  humiliation. 

Cleve  understood  that  he  was  treading  on  delicate  ground, 
but  he  could  not  forbear  a  slight  magnanimity.  "Every 
man  has  his  weak  moments,  Peter,  old  man." 

Withrow  turned  on  him  a  slow,  sardonic  smile  under 
which  he  winced,  though  this  was  instantly  concealed. 
Suddenly  he  seemed  to  be  back,  a  ragged  little  boy  with 
Polinski  mended  shoes,  watching  Peter  Withrow  ride  by  on 
his  cream  colored  pony.  He  knew  that  Peter  never  thought 
of  such  comparisons,  but  somehow  the  vision  would  not 
pass. 

"And  into  whose  scented  boudoir  did  your  particular 
weakness  lead  you  last  night?"  Withrow  questioned  slowly. 

Cleve's  flush  deepened.  "Don't  be  so  damned  deductive. 
As  it  happened,  if  I  was  out  rather  late  it  was  in  the  interests 
of  business — you  know  that  as  well  as  I.  In  a  town  like 
Cresston  it  is  impossible  to  get  by  without  the  social  ele 
ment  mixing  in.  I  think  you'll  find  all  the  evenings  I've 
spent  playing  bridge  and  foxtrotting,  and  the  oceans  of  tea 
I've  handed  around  will  return  us  as  many  loaves  and  fishes 
as  your  endless  poring  over  dry  decisions." 

Peter  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  He  was  trying  to  make 
up  his  mind  about  Cleve  and  he  changed  his  ideas  frequently. 
He  thought — "That  means,  in  two  words — Rose  Dupagny." 
Aloud  he  said,  "I  think  you  are  wrong  if  you  depend  to 
such  an  extent  upon  such  people.  Whatever  they  might 
like  to  do,  there  are  always  claims  which  come  before  ours. 


66  THE  THRESHOLD 

Laurence  Dupagny  is  morally  obligated  to  half  a  dozen  men 
who  want  whatever  influence  he  can  throw — and  which  I 
don't  regret." 

"Yet  you  go  there  occasionally,"  reproached  Cleve,  for 
getting  to  be  tactful.  "Why — when  you  like  neither  of  them  ? 
Rose  spoke  of  it  herself." 

"Rose?     You  are  already  calling  her  that?" 

"I  shouldn't, — to  you.  But  we  are  friends.  She  has 
given  me  permission  to  use  her  name." 

Peter  did  not  answer.  He  was  wondering  why  he  should 
bother  about  these  people.  Why  not  let  them  find  out  things 
themselves.  Yet  he  knew  all  the  time  that  he  would  bother, 
— not  because  of  Cleve  or  Rose  but  for  another  reason  far 
closer  to  his  heart.  He  made  an  effort  to  speak  cheerfully 
in  spite  of  his  aching  head,  which  made  cheerfulness  a  diffi 
cult  matter. 

"Never  mind.  Don't  let  my  perverted  tongue  annoy  you. 
Perhaps  I  am  jealous ;  let  us  say  that  is  the  case.  Now  I 
daresay  the  privilege  of  calling  the  lady  by  her  Christian 
name  is  a  favor  which  entitles  you  to  comradeship  which 
poor  devils  like  myself  cannot  hope  for.  Am  I  right?" 

The  younger  man's  face  was  red  and  angry;  he  began  to 
speak  violently.  "Now,  look  here,  Withrow,  I  don't  want 
to  quarrel  with  you,  but  you've  got  to  remember  that  there 
are  things  you  haven't  the  right  to  pry  into.  Because  you 
don't  believe  in  women,  you  judge  them  all  by  the  same — " 

"You  are  mistaken — I  do  believe  in  women — one  woman." 

"Remarkable." 

"I  believe  in  Antonia  Christy." 

Receiving  no  reply  to  this,  he  glanced  at  Cleve  presently 
and  found  him  staring  fixedly  out  of  the  window.  Peter 
went  on,  not  unaware  that  he  was  turning  a  thin  knife  in  the 
wound.  "You  see,  she  is  a  real  woman,  fresh  and  un- 


THE  THRESHOLD  67 

spoiled.  The  clay  of  her  soul  has  not  been  molded  to  the 
image  of  one  man  and  another.  I  do  not  believe  she  would 
try  to  persuade  you  that  your  career  should  be  tied  up  in 
a  chiffon  petticoat.  She  is  as  pristine  as  newly  fallen  snow." 

Cleve  returned  his  look  sullenly.  It  was  his  turn  to  be 
sardonic.  "And  as  interesting,"  he  finished.  "Hchv  poetic 
you  are,  Peter." 

"You  would  not  have  said  that  last  month — before  you 
came  to  know  the  Dupagnys  so  well." 

The  hall  door  left  ajar  by  Peter's  entrance  opened  noise 
lessly.  Rose  Dupagny  coming  softly  along  the  hall  had 
heard  her  name  mentioned ;  she  heard  nothing  more,  but  her 
tolerant  smile  indicated  that  she  had  heard  everything,  and 
at  sight  of  her  both  young  men  were  thrown  into  confusion. 
She  enjoyed  the  effect  of  her  entrance  for  a  wicked  mo 
ment,  then  deftly  turned  the  whole  thing  into  a  jest. 

"Why  o;i  earth  did  I  open  the  door?"  she  complained, 
coming  into  the  room  and  extending  to  each  a  slim,  gloved 
hand.  "You  see  how  honorable  I  am?  If  I  wished,  I 
might  know  what  you  really  think  of  me."  And  as  if  the 
hand  was  not  enough  she  gave  to  each  one  of  her  well 
known  glances  which  most  men  made  no  effort  to  resist. 
She  was  forced  to  draw  her  fingers  from  Cleve's  restraining 
clasp,  but  Peter  released  the  hand  he  held  as  soon  as  he 
decently  could  and  avoided  the  glance  altogether. 

"I  was  saying  that  Antonia  Christy  is  the  one  real  woman 
I  know,"  he  explained  disagreeably.  "I  don't  think  she  even 
owns  a  powder  puff." 

Peter  interested  Rose,  though  she  did  not  like  him ;  they 
understood  each  other  far  too  well.  She  knew  that  her 
pretty  mannerisms  were  an  open  page  to  him  and  that  it  was 
useless  to  pretend.  He  was  sure  to  be  brutal  and  unfor 
giving  to  her  petty  deceits,  just  as  she  disdained  the  weak- 


68  THE  THRESHOLD 

ness  that  brought  him  to  such  plights  as  his  appearance  now 
displayed.  She  knew  that  to  cross  swords  with  him  meant 
defeat,  but  she  could  not  forbear  a  delicate  feminine  sneer. 

"What  a  charmingly  bucolic  person  she  must  be!  Who 
is  she  ?  Do  you  mean  that  tall  girl  who  wears  the  dreadful 
clothes  that  must  have  belonged  to  her  grandmother?" 

"Just  so,"  Peter  agreed  equably,  "you  see,  she  had  such  a 
perfectly  corking  grandmother." 

She  offered  a'  good  natured  smile  of  capitulation.  She 
knew  all  about  the  Christys  and  their  grandmothers  and  that 
there  was  no  family  in  Cresston  which  could  match  them. 
It  was  not  her  policy  to  quarrel  openly  with  Peter  Withrow, 
for  only  that  morning  she  and  her  husband  had  talked  seri 
ously  about  the  Withrow  money  which  refused  to  be  in 
veigled  by  any  inducement  Dupagny's  cleverness  could  offer. 
She  had  enough  self-control  to  say  appreciatively : 

"You  win,  dear  Peter,"  and  left  the  field  unhumiliated. 
Then  she  turned  with  quite  another  smile  to  Cleve  who  had 
been  a  sulky  audience  to  this  exchange  of  hostilities. 

"Don't  scold  me  for  coming  here,"  she  begged  with  a 
charming  air  of  admitting  her  naughtiness.  "I  have  been 
promising  myself  this  little  escapade  ever  since  you  moved  in, 
and  this  morning  when  I  had  to«see  my  dentist  on  the  fourth 
floor,  I  rewarded  my  suffering  with  this  for  a  treat."  She 
went  over  to  the  book  cases  and  began  spelling  over  the 
titles  of  the  ponderous  volumes,  pretending  to  be  completely 
absorbed.  "How  I  love  to  prowl  among  all  these  mysterious 
papers  that  you  clever  men  turn  into  money — only  my  hus 
band  will  never  allow  me  in  his  office.  He  says  that  I  con 
taminate  its  atmosphere  with  my  frivolity."  She  finished 
with  a  light  laugh  and  Cleve  Harkness  wondered  how  any 
man  could  object  to  this  bright,  beautiful  creature  whose 
spontaneous  smile  held  no'  resentment  for  Peter's  rudeness. 


THE  THRESHOLD  69 

As  if  she  read  his  thought  she  appealed  to  him  with  a  mock 
ing  pretense  of  begging  for  praise.  "You  wouldn't  object 
to  me,  would  you,  Mr.  Harkness?  Would  I  disturb  you?" 

The  young  men  exchanged  a  quick  glance — unwillingly, 
on  Cleve's  part.  Her  formal  pronouncement  of  his  name 
was  a  tacit'  admission  of  their  secret  intimacy  and  he  knew 
that  this  was  patent  to  Peter's  abnormally  keen  intuition. 
His  irritability  increased ;  he  was  even  annoyed  with  Rose 
for  coming  there,  and  he  could  barely  conceal  his  rising 
anger  against  Peter,  who  seemed  determined  to  make  Mrs. 
Dupagny's  visit  as  unpleasant  as  possible. 

"But  you  would  disturb  me — decidedly,"  Peter  inter 
rupted,  ill  naturedly.  "You  are  disturbing  me  now.  I 
want  to  read  my  letters.  They  are  all  from  people  who 
want  money  one  way  or  another,  but  I  like  to  see  how  many 
methods  there  are  for  getting  it  without  using  physical 
force.  Why  don't  you  take  Cleve  and  go  away  somewhere  ? 
You've  planned  something  that  will  keep  him  away  from 
the  office  most  of  the  afternoon,  so  be  about  it  whatever  it 
is." 

Under  cover  of  their  laughter  a  young  girl  had  entered 
the  room  and  now  stood'  in  the  background,  undecided 
whether  to  intrude  upon  their  gayety.  She  was  bareheaded 
and  dressed  in  the  simple  shirtwaist  and  skirt  of  an  office 
girl.  She  had  some  loose  papers  in  her  hand  and  had  evi 
dently  come  from  another  office  in  the  same  building. 
When  Peter  saw  her  his  attitude  changed  and  his  glance 
brought  her  to  his  side. 

"Mr.  Dupagny  sent  them,"  she  said  in  a  flat,  colorless 
tone  as  she  delivered  the  papers.  "He'll  be  in  to  see  you 
later  in  the  day." 

She  went  out  with  Rose  staring  after  her.  There  was  an 
immense  contrast  between  the  two  women — they  hardly 


70  THE  THRESHOLD 

seemed  to  be  of  the  same  sex,  so  great  was  the  difference 
that  marked  Rose's  brilliant  beauty  and  the  simplicity,  even 
humility,  of  the  other,  whose  face  expressed  nothing  as  her 
clothes  possessed  no  charm. 

"My  husband's  secretary?"  Rose  questioned  when  the 
door  closed  and  at  Cleve's  assent  she  added  lightly,  "There ! 
It  proves  that  I  never  call  upon  my  husband  during  busi 
ness  hours.  My  sin  in  coming  here  is  increased.  The 
creature  did  not  even  know  me." 

"Are  you  ever  going?"  demanded  Peter  fiercely,  scowling 
at  the  papers  before  him. 

When  she  and  Cleve  were  in  the  open  air,  Rose  made  a 
little  gesture  of  distaste. 

"B-rrr !  Peter  has  been  drinking  again.  ...  It  is  so 
terrible  that  his  promise  cannot  be  relied  upon.  You  know 
he  gave  his  word  to  his  father  after  that  affair  at  Dayton. 
.  .  .  Sometimes — Cleve — I  wonder  if  you  were  wise  to  con 
nect  your  name  with  his  !" 

This  was  almost  a  bit  of  clever  mind  reading,  for  Cleve 
had  been  thinking  the  same  thing  recently.  But  no  sign 
of  this  coincidence  was  in  his  reply  which  was  benevolent 
and  entirely  tolerant  of  his  friend's  weakness. 

"I  will  never  be  dishonored  by  Peter,"  he  said  simply. 
"If  he  stumbles  once  in  a  while  it  is  only  his  feet,  not  his 
soul." 

"Dear  Peter,"  murmured  Rose. 


ROSE  had  no  car  of  her  own  but  Cleve's  was  parked 
in  the  middle  of  the  block  and  they  walked  slowly 
toward  it,  impelled  by  an  instinct  neither  refused  to  admit 
though  pretending  to  ignore  it.  The  roadster  was  a  smart 
affair  and  Rose  was  beginning  to  feel  a  proprietory  interest 
in  it. 

"Suppose  we  run  out  to  the  Club  for  a  bit  of  luncheon?" 
she  suggested  with  the  tip  of  a  white  gloved  finger  on  the 
glittering  fender. 

Guiding  the  little  car  through  the  pleasant  activity  of 
Hewlett  Avenue  with  Rose  Dupagny  beside  him,  Cleve  did 
not  feel  much  like  the  little  boy  who  wore  other  boy's 
patched  trousers,  or  like  the  youth  who  devoured  knowledge 
voraciously  behind  the  dusty  windows  of  Roscoe  Christy's 
office.  He  was  even  able  to  banish  the  hated  memory  of 
Smith's  grocery  and  the  weighing  of  sugar  and  bacon.  He 
felt  proud  and  rather  light-headed  from  the  proximity  of 
the  delicately  clothed  figure  that  poised  closely  to  him  with 
out  the  faintest  contact.  ...  In  his  exhilaration  he  made 
the  error  of  driving  through  Carroll  Street,  where  his 
father's  shop  was  located,  and  there  was  a  dreadful  half 
minute  when  the  old  dealer  might  have  appeared  among  the 
mended  chairs  and  sofas  displayed  before  the  door,  forcing 
a  recognition  painful  and  humiliating. 

But  old  Saul  was  not  in  evidence  and  the  anxious  moment 
passed,  to  be  forgotten  in  a  delicious  present. 

71 


72  THE  THRESHOLD 

"How  Peter  dislikes  me,"  Rose  fretted,  unable  to  forget 
the  one  man  who  resisted  her.  "What  was  he  saying  about 
me?  I'm  sure  it  was  something  fearfully  unpleasant." 

Cleve  frowned.  He  wanted  to  forget  Peter  with  other 
disagreeable  memories  and  he  was  a  little  jealous  of  Rose's 
continued  interest  in  the  subject. 

"Who  can  account  for  what  he  thinks?"  he  answered, 
shortly.  "His  whole  life  is  a  contradiction.  Why  let  his 
boorishness  worry  you?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  your  rooms,"  confessed  Rose  with  an 
audacious  little  smile,  "but  how  glad  I  am  I  didn't  really 
pay  you  the  visit  I  planned.  If  he  had  seen  me  there  what 
could  have  saved  me  ?" 

He  reached  over  and  touched  her  hand  caressingly  with 
out  slowing  the  swift  bird-like  flight  of  the  blue  roadster. 

"He  shall  not  interfere  with  us.  I'm  holding  you  to  your 
promise.  My  home — the  first  I've  ever  had — will  never 
be  complete  until  you've  seen  it, — sat  in  the  chairs,  pulled 
the  curtains  about  and  left  your  intangible  self  inside  its 
walls." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  while  after  that.  Rose  was 
trying  to  analyze  her  emotions,  but  to  her  chagrin  she 
could  not  capture  and  control  them.  She  had  made  men  a 
study  and  the  early  stages  of  an  infatuation  which  centered 
around  her  was  always  diverting  and  delightful.  She  loved 
to  encourage  adoration,  certain  always  that  she  possessed 
the  strength  to  disappoint  its  demands,  and  she  was  so  cal 
culating  a  player  in  this  dangerous  game  that  she  was  al 
ways  able  to  retreat  with  honor ;  usually  with  the  lasting  ad 
miration  of  her  antagonist. 

But  now  her  instinct  sensed  a  difference  in  the  growing 
intimacy  between  Cleve  Harkness  and  herself.  Try  as  she 
would  she  could  not  grasp  the  sure  weapon  of  indifference. 


THE  THRESHOLD  73 

His  lightest  word  interested  her ;  she  thrilled  at  his  touch 
like  a  school  girl.  "I  am  losing  my  head !"  she  thought,  af- 
f  rightedly,  like  a  swimmer  beyond  his  depth ;  but  even  with 
this  warning  she  could  not  draw  herself  from  the  danger 
ous  fascination  of  his  companionship. 

Cleve  was  less  experienced  and  yielded  more  readily  to  the 
forces  that  drew  them  closer  with  every  hour  spent  together. 
He  had  misgivings  as  well  as  Rose,  but  they  were  created 
from  widely  different  causes.  His  anxiety  had  to  do  with 
his  career  which  was  only  just  beginning;  he  was  too  cool- 
headed  not  to  know  that  Rose  and  her  gay  friends  were 
drawing  him  swiftly  from  the  current  of  the  ambition  he 
had  cherished  so  long  and  so  deeply.  And  in  spite  of  his 
dawning  passion  he  was  able  to  weigh  this  influence  and 
calculate  its  menace  to  himself. 

One  of  the  weaknesses  of  his  character  was  an  exagger 
ated  respect  for  the  social  element  which  dominated  Cress- 
ton,  but  he  offered  the  same  excuse  to  his  conscience  for 
this  that  he  had  given  Peter  Withrow.  He  claimed  that 
these  gay,  inconsequential  people  had  their  uses  and  that 
he  was  using  them.  It  salved  the  accusation  of  his  intelli 
gence. 

The  intoxicating  sweetness  of  his  close  association  with 
Rose  Dupagny  was  fed  by  the  knowledge  that  once  she  had 
been  as  far  from  him  as  the  stars,  yet  now  she  was  coming 
slowly  into  his  heart.  In  the  lean  days  of  his  beginning 
she  had  been  a  bright  figure,  remote  and  charming  to  his 
wistful  imagination,  but  he  had  never  hoped  to  come  within 
the  radius  of  her  gay  smile:  He  remembered  that  period  of 
his  life  with  tolerant  pity.  Then  he  had  only  cared  for 
books, — the  musty  old  books  in  Judge  Christy's  library. 
He  was  aeons  removed  from  the  boy  who  had  been  asked 
to  Sunday  tea  by  Bessie  Wickersham,  but  he  was  still 


74  THE  THRESHOLD 

balanced  enough  to  be  grateful  to  that  boy,  while  he  despised 
him  for  those  grinding  years  of  poverty  and  debasement 
which  had  given  the  foundation  on  which  he  now  stood  se 
cure,  in  spite  of  the  enticements  that  encroached  more  and 
more  upon  his  life. 

Rose  did  not  return  to  town  in  Cleve's  car.  They  had 
an  uninterrupted  hour  at  a  veranda  table  and  she  was  still 
mistress  enough  of  her  social  instincts  to  see  the  folly  of 
identifying  herself  too  completely  with  one  man  when  a 
month  ago  she  had  laughed  at  a  score.  Cleve  protested 
against  her  desertion,  but  she  remained  firm  and  waved  him 
adieu  from  a  group  of  irreproachable  matrons  who  were 
cutting  for  bridge. 

They  welcomed  her  so  sweetly  that  she  was  alarmed. 
She  was  popular  among  women,  but  she  never  forgot  their 
power  of  turning  a  confidence  into  a  guillotine.  These 
women  were  all  her  intimates ;  they  imitated  the  way  she 
did  her  hair  and  asked  her  to  all  their  parties.  They  had 
witnessed  a  hundred  harmless  flirtations  of  hers,  but  to-day 
she  felt  on  guard  against  them.  She  covered  her  faint  self- 
consciousness  with  a  laughing  allusion  to  Cleve's  youth,  and 
fought  savagely  against  a  blush  that  threatened  to  betray 
her. 

"When  he  is  thirty  he  will  be  the  debutante's  dream," 
she  predicted  with  a  little  worldly-wise  air. 

Nina  Harper  tinkled  her  artificial  laugh. 

"Jack  says  he  will  be  the  Governor  by  that  time,"  she 
said,  opening  her  diamond  suit,  "and  married  to  the  richest 
girl  in  Cresston." 

It  was  nearly  four  when  Cleve  got  back  to  the  office  and 
he  found  Peter  still  there.  He  was  sitting  before  his  desk 
much  as  he  had  been  sitting  three  hours  earlier,  and  the  con 
fused  heap  of  papers  before  him  was  augmented  by  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  75 

scattered  sheets  of  two  or  three  newspapers.  He  was  not 
reading;  he  was  not  working;  he  hardly  seemed  to  be 
thinking.  He  was  still  unkempt,  demolished,  as  he  had  been 
when  Cleve  saw  him  last,  and  now  Cleve,  entering  from  the 
summer  sunshine  and  from  the  pleasant  conventionality  of 
the  Club  where  the  immaculate  loveliness  of  the  women  per 
vaded  everything  like  a  heady  perfume,  flung  a  glance  of 
barely  concealed  disgust  at  the  soiled  inertia  of  the  office. 

Intercepting  this  look  Peter  returned  it  with  a  bloodshot 
glance  of  his  own  that  held  some  secret  menace  of  his  brood 
ing  hours.  Cleve,  pretending  not  to  be  aware  of  this,  was 
about  to  pass  into  his  rooms  when  Peter  spoke  in  a  harsh, 
strange  voice. 

"This  is  a  damned  fine  way  to  run  an  office,  isn't  it?"  he 
said.  "You  following  women  about,  and  I,  helplessly 
drunk." 

It  could  be  seen  then  that  he  had  moved  several  times 
in  those  lonely  hours — as  far  as  the  mahogany  cellarette,  at 
least,  for  the  door  of  this  receptacle  hung  slightly  ajar  and 
the  timber  of  his  voice  was  indefinably  altered. 

Halted  in  this  fashion,  a  dull  flush  crept  over  Cleve's 
face.  He  had  a  moment's  difficulty  in  preventing  a  sudden 
flame  from  leaping  from  the  smoldering  anger  in  his 
breast  which  had  been  there  since  his  early  encounter  with 
his  partner.  He  managed  to  speak  calmly. 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  Withrow.  You'll  hate  it  to-morrow. 
See  here,  hadn't  you  better  trot  along  home  now  and  let 
Daniel  fix  you  up?  I'll  phone  for  your  car  and  a  man  to 
drive.  We  can't  do  any  work  to-day — it's  four,  already. 
To-morrow  we'll  start  in  fresh."  He  turned  away,  dis 
missing  the  wretched  scene  with  an  air  of  patience.  There 
was  something  in  him,  a  cool  immaculateness,  that  set  him 
safely  apart  from  the  sordid  waste  of  the  other.  He  was 


76  THE  THRESHOLD 

about  to  free  himself  from  it  by  closing  the  door  of  his  own 
rooms. 

Peter,  rising,  made  a  pitiful  gesture.  He  attempted  to 
rest  his  unsteady  hand  on  the  desk,  but  miscalculated  the 
distance,  and  his  slipping  fingers  sent  a  flurry  of  papers  to 
the  floor.  He  sat  down  heavily  and  his  head  drooped  for 
ward.  "I'm  a  beast,"  he  said. 

Cleve  hesitated ;  then  he  came  over  and  put  a  comforting 
hand  on  the  bowed  shoulder.  There  are  few  things  in  life 
more  elevating  to  the  spirit  than  ministering  to  a  penitent 
by  means  of  a  light  touch  on  the  shoulder.  The  action  re 
stored  Cleve  to  his  usual  frame  of  mind. 

"Don't  speak  of  yourself  like  that,"  he  urged,  kindly. 
"You  know  we  talked  all  that  over,  and  I  understand  you  if 
others  don't.  We've  both  got  our  faults  and  it's  lucky 
they're  not  the  same  ones.  You'll  be  fit  in  the  morning  and 
well  tackle  this  work." 

"Damn  you,"  said  Peter,  looking  up  coldly.  "Don't 
preach  to  me." 

It  was  no  use  trying  to  cover  the  enmity  that  lay  between 
them  like  a  sword.  Cleve  started  back  and  his  face  took  on 
a  strange  hardness  that  changed  it  beyond  belief.  He  col 
lected  his  thoughts  which  had  been  scattered  by  Peter's  out 
rageous  assault  and  answered  deliberately. 

"I'll  take  back  all  I  said  awhile  ago.  You  are  a  drunk 
ard — yes,  and  a  beast,  if  you  think  so.  You  are  the  best 
judge  of  that.  But  what  I'd  like  to  know  is — why  take 
this  tone  with  me?" 

To  his  surprise  Peter  laughed — not  that  the  queer,  stran 
gling  sound  was  laughter,  but  it  might  pass  as  such.  With 
a  rapid  change  of  mood  he  regained  the  ghost  of  his  lazy, 
sardonic  temper.  Having  forced  Cleve's  hidden  resent- 


THE  THRESHOLD  77 

ment  to  the  open,  he  was  able  to  take  a  calmer  measure  of 
the  quarrel  which  had  come  between  them. 

"That's  right,"  he  agreed,  equably.  "I'm  all  that  and 
more,  and  I'd  rather  you  said  it  than  thought  it  about  me. 
You  see,  the  transmission  of  thought  is  so  much  more 
powerful  than  plain  speech,  that  the  vibration  of  your  con 
cealed  emotion  is  poisonous  to  a  dangerous  degree.  I  have 
a  chronic  aversion  to  any  man  going  about  thinking  of  me 
as  a  beast.  The  thought  waves  from  such  a  source  cannot 
help  but  create  insidious  injury — " 

"What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  Cleve  interrupted  roughly. 
"If  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me,  let's  hear  it.  I  won't 
quarrel  with  you  to-day,  Peter,  but  I  will  to-morrow,  if 
you  still  insist  on  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  quarrel  at  all,"  Peter  returned  smoothly ; 
"I  only  want  to  offer  my  opinion  of  you  in  return  for  your 
frankness.  You  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself  over  a 
woman." 

The  name  both  had  avoided  leapt  between  them,  instantly 
tearing  down  the  walls  of  reserve  no  other  subject  could 
destroy. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  Rose  Dupagny  yourself?"  Cleve 
asked. 

For  answer  Peter  laughed  again,  but  this  time  there  was 
a  note  of  sincerity  in  his  mirth.  The  hostilities  between  the 
two  which,  oddly  enough,  rested  at  their  peak  seemed  to 
clear  his  brain  and  reduce  the  fever  of  his  brooding  fury. 
He  laughed  until  Cleve's  anger,  which  exceeded  his  own, 
showed  signs  of  breaking  through  the  younger  man's  con 
trol  ;  then  he  ceased  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun  and  stood 
up,  making  a  swift  adjustment  of  his  disordered  toilette. 
Miraculously  the  outward  signs  of  his  downfall  vanished 


78  THE  THRESHOLD 

and  except  for  his  unshaven  face  he  might  have  passed 
muster  among  other  men. 

"What  can  you  expect  of  a  beast?"  he  said  in  a  sort  of 
bitter  raillery.  "I'll  not  ask  your  pardon  for  insulting  you, 
Harkness,  but  I'll  excuse  you  now  if  you  want  to  change 
your  collar." 

As  Cleve  went  into  his  apartment  he  heard  Peter  cross 
the  floor.  Then  the  door  shut  noisily.  By  listening  care 
fully  he  could  hear  steps  going  down  the  stairs.  The  rooms 
were  on  the  second  floor  and  it  was  like  Peter  to  ignore  the 
inefficient  elevator  service. 

When  this  sound  had  quite  passed  away,  he  dismissed  his 
immediate  and  active  anger  and  turned  his  thoughts  to  the 
possible  bearing  this  scene  might  have  upon  his  affairs.  At 
the  same  time  he  remembered  a  number  of  minor  necessi 
ties  which  pressed  upon  his  attention.  He  had  some  tele 
phoning  to  do  and  a  few  letters  to  write.  Later  on  came 
a  dinner  engagement  that  was  certain  to  wind  up  with  a 
veranda  dance  at  the  Club.  There  were  a  number  of  things 
to  crowd  into  the  next  three  hours,  but  there  was  a  corner 
of  his  mind  which  he  kept  clear  to  devote  to  the  unparalleled 
behavior  of  Peter  Withrow. 

Cleve  had  a  curious  mind.  It  was  like  a  honeycomb. 
Each  tiny  cell  was  separate  and  complete  and  in  no  way 
encroached  upon  another.  Thus  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
devote  as  -clear  and  deductive  reasoning  to  the  color  of  a 
morning  tie  as  to  the  working  of  a  brief,  and  with  perfect 
fairness  he  divided  his  mental  processes  between  the  things 
that  concerned  him  most.  It  was  important  for  him  to 
maintain  his  present  connection  with  Peter,  aside  from  the 
genuine  personal  liking  he  had  felt  in  the  beginning  for 
his  erratic  partner,  and  he  wondered  rather  sadly  why  his 
friend  had  suddenly  shown  so  marked  a  change.  It  would 


THE  THRESHOLD  79 

be  awkward  if  a  serious  difference  should  arise  and  their 
partnership  be  threatened.  He  knew  that  such  a  condition 
would  have  far-reaching  consequences  as  regarded  himself, 
for  he  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  was  strong  enough 
to  stand  alone.  Considering  Peter  and  himself  dispas 
sionately  he  was  struck  anew,  by  the  complete  unfairness  of 
fate  in  dividing  her  bounties.  Peter  Withrow  had  every 
thing  to  begin  with,  good  birth,  money,  a  flawless  education 
and  a  father  who  dressed  irreproachably  and  wore  a  pince- 
nez  as  though  he  had  been  born  with  it.  Yet  he  was  living 
up  to  none  of  these  advantages.  It  might  even  be  said 
that  he  was  living  them  down  as  fast  as  possible.  Cleve 
disdained  the  existence  of  his  own  father's  second  hand 
shop,  yet  it  was  old  Saul's  spirit  that  spoke  in  him,  when  he 
counted  the  other's  blessings.  He  hated  to  see  anything 
wasted  and  Peter  was  a  spendthrift  with  his  good  luck. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  his  backsliding.  More 
than  once  he  appeared  to  have  a  hold  on  himself,  promising 
a  complete  reversal  of  the  fatal  weakness  that  sapped  his 
character,  but  it  always  ended  in  something  like  the  scene 
of  to-day.  There  was  no  depending  on  Peter. 

The  thought  crossed  Cleve's  mind  that  perhaps  Rose 
Dupagny  had  been  right — the  association  might  be  the 
wrong  thing  for  him  after  all,  but  second  thought  dispelled 
this  doubt.  The  name  of  Withrow  had  always  been  hon 
ored  in  Cresston.  It  had  its  value  and  even  in  the  degen 
eration  of  Peter  there  was  a  certain  savor  of  the  great. 
Weighing  everything  in  the  infinitesimal  scales  of  his  mind, 
he  decided  that  Rose  was  wrong. 

But  the  appearance  of  her  name  in  his  thoughts  was  the 
end  of  speculation  about  Peter.  He  would  see  her  to-night. 
They  would  dance  together ;  there  would  be  a  chance  for  a 
few  words  under  the  very  eyes  of  their  curious  world. 


80  THE  THRESHOLD 

Peter  and  his  idiosyncrasies  could  wait  until  to-morrow. 

It  was  after  six  when  Nina  Harper's  coupe  brought  Rose 
to  her  door.  Nina  had  stopped  at  her  own  house  in  a 
belated  spasm  of  anxiety  about  her  children's  tea,  and  Rose 
was  glad  of  this  when  she  saw  Laurence  Dupagny  marching 
up  and  down  the  flagged  walk  with  the  furious  and  futile 
energy  which  she  recognized  as  the  inevitable  prelude  of  a 
quarrel  with  herself. 

She  passed  him  with  a  nod  that  effectually  concealed  her 
instant  resentment  of  what  she  termed  "espionage"  on  his 
part.  But  she  was  not  rid  of  him  so  easily  for  he  followed 
her  to  her  room  and  entered  determinedly,  though  her  atti 
tude  coldly  dismissed  him.  When  the  door  was  closed  he 
demanded  harshly,  "Where  have  you  been?" 

She  was  removing  her  hat  with  the  carefulness  of  a 
dainty  woman  and  she  folded  her  veil  and  pierced  it  with 
two  silver  pins  before  she  replied  non-committally :  "The 
Country  Club — bridge — Tea." 

"But  before  that?" 

She  had  a  glimpse  of  his  face  through  the  cheval  mirror 
and  it  startled  her  into  serious  thought.  She  might  have 
gained  time  by  a  trivial  inquiry,  "Why  do  you  ask?"  but 
instead  she  said  calmly: 

"I  had  luncheon  out  there  with  Cleve  Harkness." 

"And  you  went  to  his  office  for  him?"  snarled  Dupagny, 
coming  toward  her.  "By  God !  You  followed  that  boy  to 
his  own  doors.  You  can't  keep  away  from  him!" 

She  turned  and  surveyed  him  coolly.  Her  heart  was 
beating  fast,  but  he  could  not  guess  that.  Before  she  replied 
she  walked  to  a  closet  and  put  her  hat  away  deliberately, 
finding  a  nook  for  it  upon  a  crowded  shelf  among  other 
hats  and  covering  the  whole  array  with  a  shelf  cloth. 
This  gave  her  a  moment  to  think  and  when  she  looked 


THE  THRESHOLD  81 

at  him  again  she  said :  "Yes,  I  went  to  his  office — his  and 
Peter  Withrow's.  You  asked  me  to  keep  in  touch  with 
Peter,  but  how  could  I  when  he  comes  here  so  seldom  ? 
When  I  stopped  in  this  morning  I  found  him  lamentably 
drunk  and  Mr.  Harkness  relieved  my  embarrassment  by  ask 
ing  me  to  lunch  with  him." 

"Your  embarrassment — yours !"  he  sneered. 
"If  you  are  being  merely  abusive — " 
There  had  been  so  many  of  these  scenes  between  them. 
If  Cleve  Harkness  was  not  the  man  it  would  be  another. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  Dupagny's  anger  or  jealousy,  she  held 
his  importance  too  lightly ;  but  she  wondered  how  he  had 
learned  of  her  visit  and  this  troubled  her  until  she  remem 
bered  the  girl  who  had  brought  Peter  the  papers.  "Ah!" 
she  thought,  realizing  the  significance  of  this,  and  felt  a 
glow  of  triumph  and  justification  at  her  discovery.  If  she 
had  not  known  Dupagny's  stenographer,  it  was  evident  that 
she  herself  had  been  recognized. 

"What  are  you  smiling  about  ?"  Dupagny  demanded 
suspiciously,  but  she  turned  the  subject  deftly.  She  was  far 
too  wise  to  humiliate  him. 

"Larry,  who  are  the  Christys — really?" 
"The  Christys— why  ?" 
"Tell  me." 

He  frowned  impatiently.  He  suspected  her  of  evasion 
and  was  certain  that  there  was  more  deceit  beyond  than  he 
had  discovered,  but  he  gave  her  an  answer.  "They  are 
nobody  now.  Once  they  were  rather  important,  but  every 
one  has  forgotten  them.  What  are  you  trying  to  find  out  ?" 
Rose  began  loosening  her  hair.  It  veiled  her  like  a  fine 
black  web.  Beneath  its  shelter  she  could  say  what  she 
chose. 

"They  will  be  important  again.     Peter  Withrow   is   in 


82  THE  THRESHOLD 

love  with  the  girl,  and  she  will  probably  refuse  to  marry 
him  because  he  drinks.  Then  he  will  go  to  the  dogs  faster 
than  ever  and  take  his  money  with  him.  Nobody  will  ever 
benefit  by  it.  .  .  ." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?  Did  Harkness  tell  you?" 
He  could  not  forget  his  jealousy. 

But  Rose  was  tired  of  this  bootless  talk.  "How  stupid 
you  are,"  she  said  coldly.  "Please  let  me  dress.  Have  you 
forgotten  that  we  are  going  to  the  Harpers'  to-night?  You 
haven't  much  time." 

He  left  her  in  peace  then,  but  when  she  went  into  his  room 
a  half  hour  later  she  found  him  lying  sprawled  in  a  wide, 
low  chair,  asleep. 

She  stood  looking  without  awakening  him,  though  the 
hands  of  the  clock  were  crawling  perilously  near  to  seven. 
All  afternoon  she  had  been  thinking  of  Cleve;  his  face 
smiled  at  her  through  the  senseless  cards  she  played  so 
surely,  and  through  the  chatter  of  women's  voices  she 
heard  only  his,  deep-toned  and  tender.  While  she  dressed 
she  had  been  remembering  his  eyes  and  the  touch  of  his 
hand  on  her  arm  as  he  helped  her  into  the  car.  It  was  into 
this  reverie  that  her  husband  had  broken  with  his  veiled 
accusations,  his  crude  jealousies  which  she  resented  and 
despised,  because  he  had  never  failed  to  use  her  beauty  and 
charm  when  he  could. 

Yet  she  watched  him  in  thoughtful  silence  making  an 
inventory  of  the  tragic  disclosures  of  sleep.  There  were 
hollows  in  his  temples  and  beneath  his  eyes.  His  mouth 
sagged.  With  an  impulse  of  pity  she  bent  over  him  and 
turned  his  face  gently,  so  that  his  cheek  rested  against  a 
cushion. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ANTONIA  CHRISTY,  in  a  washed  white  muslin  and 
black  straw  sailor  hat,  walked  downtown  one  hot 
morning,  and,  crossing  the  Square  under  the  shade  of  the 
dusty  elms,  entered  the  broad  open  doors  of  the  Sheridan 
Building. 

It  was  a  quiet  hour  and  the  marble  fo»yer  was  cool  and 
empty.  She  was  glad  of  this  because  in  the  last  few  minutes 
her  courage  had  deserted  her  rapidly,  and  she  feared  a 
crowd,  notwithstanding  the  shelter  she  would  have  found 
in  one. 

Antonia  had  no  experience  with  such  magnificence  as  the 
mind  of  Laurence  Dupagny  had  conceived  when  he  out 
lined  the  plans  of  the  big  building  and  dressed  it  to  suit  his 
fancy.  To  her  it  seemed  a  vast  labyrinth  of  uncharted 
entrances  and  corridors,  and  her  pride  winced  before  the 
childish  prospect  of  losing  her  way  and  having  to  ask 
directions  of  some  jostling  stranger.  As  she  stepped  inside 
she  called  her  mind  contemptuously  to  order  while  her 
timid  feet  longed  to  turn  about  and  run  from  the  possi 
bility  of  confusion. 

At  her  first  glance  the  place  seemed  to  be  deserted  after 
the  lazy  bustle  of  the  street,  but  when  her  eyes  became  ac 
customed  to  the  shadow  she  saw  that  there  were  people  there, 
after  all.  A  girl  with  a  hard,  pretty  face  was  before  a  tele 
phone  board  that  guarded  a  row  of  glassed-in  booths,  and  at 
the  news  and  cigar  stands  there  were  others,  modishly 

83 


84  THE  THRESHOLD 

dressed,  cool  and  efficient  and  delicately  pretty.  She  asked 
one  of  them  where  Mr.  Peter  Withrow's  office  was  and  be 
came  instantly  aware  of  her  blunder  when  the  girl  gave  her 
a  polite,  incredulous  look.  Antonia  knew  nothing  about  di 
rectories,  but  she  saw  the  large,  black-framed  list  of  names 
as  the  question  left  her  lips. 

The  news  stand  girl  smiled  tolerantly.  "I  believe  Mr. 
Withrow  is  on  the  second,"  she  explained  languidly.  "Ask 
the  elevatorman.  He'll  show  you." 

But  there  was  no  elevator  though  the  black  and  gold  grill 
held  space  for  three,  and  as  Antonia  had  no  mind  for 
further  mistakes  she  sought  the  stairs  which  ascended  in 
flights  from  the  side  of  the  cage.  As  she  went  up  the 
steps  she  felt  the  eyes  of  all  these  hostile  women  upon 
her  half-worn  shoes  and  the  cheap  stockings  that  covered 
her  ankles,  and  swift,  haughty  anger  burned  away  her 
humiliation.  How  dared  they  look  at  her  so?  She  caught 
herself  remembering  that  she  was  Antonia  Christy,  and  that 
such  people  should  not  be  looking  at  her  at  all. 

But  she  swiftly  forgot  them  as  she  reached  the  top  of 
the  first  flight,  for  suddenly  she  was  in  the  midst  of  adven 
ture.  She  had  planned  this  excursion  so  often  and  so 
unbelievingly  that  each  commonplace  step  held  the  virtue  of 
the  unexpected.  All  of  her  life  she  had  walked  patiently 
in  the  footsteps  of  a  thousand  women,  but  now  she  was 
upon  unknown  ground.  At  any  moment  one  of  those  silent 
doors  which  confronted  her  in  impassive  rows,  might  open 
and  disclose  something  forbidden  and  interesting. 

But  as  it  happened  she  met  no  one.  The  long,  echoing 
hallways  of  the  second  floor  were  empty,  as  she  walked 
timidly  along.  Reading  the  names  upon  the  doors,  she  felt 
the  courage  of  her  pride  ebbing  slowly  until  all  the  revivify- 


THE  THRESHOLD  85 

ing  resolutions  with  which  she  had  abandoned  seclusion 
that  morning  seemed  to  have  vanished. 

Unexpectedly  she  came  upon  the  right  door,  at  the  very 
moment  she  felt  herself  routed  by  the  silence.  She  might 
have  failed  even  then  but  that  the  names  upon  the  glass 
panel  fascinated  her  and  she  stood  reading  them  over  and 
over  as  though  she  had  never  seen  them  before — "Peter  B. 
Withrow."  "Cleveland  Harkness."  She  had  known  them 
both  since  early  childhood,  but  she  had  never  seen  them 
lettered  in  fat  gold  script,  and  in  this  disguise  they  were 
completely  unfamiliar. 

Peter,  opening  the  door,  found  her  on  the  threshold.  He 
uttered  her  name  in  an  astonished  voice  and  stepped  back 
into  the  room.  He  had  his  hat  on  but  removed  it,  running 
his  fingers  nervously  through  his  dark  hair. 

"I've  come  to  ask  for  a  position,  Peter,  if  there  is  any 
thing  I  can  do,"  said  Antonia  in  a  low,  steady  voice. 

They  both  sat  down,  Antonia  in  a  straight  chair  and 
Peter  at  his  desk.  Under  the  spell  of  his  easy,  welcoming 
smile  she  began  to  lose  her  misgivings  and  the  sense  of 
unreality  which  had  confused  her.  She  smiled  back  at  him, 
sure,  as  she  always  was,  that  he  would  understand. 

"I've  done  it  at  last,"  she  said. 

Peter  gradually  lost  his  smile  and  taking  up  a  paper 
weight  began  turning  it  around  in  his  fingers.  His  mouth 
looked  grave.  "Does  your  father  know  of  this,  Antonia?" 
he  asked. 

"Not  yet.  It  will  make  him  angry,  of  course,  when  he 
does  know,  and  he  will  object,  but — "  she  made  an  impelling 
gesture,  "I  told  you  I  meant  to  do  it,  Peter."  In  a  lower 
tone  she  added,  "I  must." 

He  looked  up.     "Is  it  as  bad  as  that,  Tony?" 


86  THE  THRESHOLD 

"Very  bad,  Peter." 

He  knew  how  hard  it  was  for  her  to  speak  of  her  intimate 
thoughts  and  waited  patiently  for  her  to  begin.  What  she 
had  to  say  was  not  new  to  him  for  they  had  often  talked 
together  of  the  ambition  that  had  been  growing  in  her  breast 
since  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  while  Peter  had  never  tried 
to  thwart  or  discourage  this,  he  had  not  dreamed  the  time 
was  coming  when  she  would  break  the  shackles  of  custom 
and  turn  to  him  for  help.  When  she  remained  silent  he 
spoke  guardedly.  "Have  you  thought  about  what  the  town 
will  say,  Antonia?" 

"The  town !"  She  smiled  faintly.  "It  is  the  world  I  am 
trying  to  enter  that  matters.  This  doesn't  sound  like  you, 
Peter.  .  .  .  Are  you  trying  to  frighten  me?" 

He  could  not  forget  that  she  was  a  young  girl  in  spite 
of  her  wide  reading,  and  this  put  a  restraint  on  the  things 
he  wanted  to  explain.  But  as  he  saw  beneath  the  girlish 
exterior  the  fixed  purpose,  carefully  thought  out  and  coolly 
planned,  his  heart  began  to  beat  with  dizzying  elation.  The 
thought  that  she  had  come  to  him  of  all  men  was  like  an 
intoxicating  draught,  yet  he  knew  that  he  must  dissuade 
her  if  he  could. 

"I  am  trying  to  remind  you  that  we  live  in  a  little  world 
that  counts,  however  we  ignore  it,"  he  said  gravely.  "This 
is  queer  talk,  coming  from  me,  for  I  have  defied  all  its 
petty  rules,  but  I  am  a  man  and  you  are  a  woman,  Antonia, 
and  the  censure  that  I  can  disdain  will  strike  into  your 
soul." 

"Why  should  I  be  censured?" 

He  had  no  answer  ready  for  this,  beyond  the  trivial 
excuses  of  society,  and  when  he  voiced  the  first  of  these  it 
sounded  lamentably  tame  and  weak.  "Harkness  and  I 
are  young  men,  and  I,  at  least,  have  a  beastly  reputation. 


THE  THRESHOLD  87 

If  you  insist  on  a  career  of  some  sort,  why  not  take  up  a 
woman's  occupation  ?  There  are  a  dozen  things  you  might 
do.  You  could  earn  money — be  independent  without — 
without— 
She  stood  up.  She  was  pale,  but  she  spoke  in  an  even 
voice. 

"I  see  that  I  was  wrong.  You  do  not  understand,  after 
all.  I  will  have  to  try  again.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  go!"  He  was  on  his  feet,  his  hand  touching  her 
arm.  Their  faces  were  close  together.  "I  do  understand, 
Antonia.  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  not  speaking  for  myself, 
but  from  the  viewpoint  of  others.  .  .  .  They  count,  though 
we  despise  them — when  a  woman  is  in  question.  It  is 
because  I  want  to  save  you  the  least  pain — " 

Their  eyes  met.  In  hers  the  beginning  of  startled  wonder 
asked  a  question ;  in  his  something  quick  and  alive  answered 
so  swiftly  that  if  she  had  been  like  other  women  she  must 
have  known.  But  Antonia's  lessons  had  come  from  dust- 
dry  books,  not  from  the  pulse  of  humanity,  so  that  what 
she  saw  was  lost  to  her  and  she  dismissed  the  faintly  specu 
lative  thought  which  for  a  moment  had  disturbed  her. 

"I  shall  never  live  at  home  as  I  have  done,"  she  replied 
steadily,  and  there  was  such  force  behind  her  words  that 
he  admitted  his  defeat.  "If  you  will  not  let  me  work 
for  you,  I  will  ask  some  one  else.  I  will  find  a  position,  for 
I  am  willing  to  work  for  very  little  and  I  am  neat  and 
accurate.  That  is  what  they  always  ask  for,  isn't  it  ?  Neat 
ness  and  accuracy — and  some  one  will  give  me  the  chance 
which  you  and  my  father  deny  me.  After  awhile  this  little 
world,  whose  opinion  you  respect  so  much,  will  admit  that 
I  am  right ;  even  my  father  must  come  to  see  in  time  that  I 
am  a  Christy  as  well  as  he,  and  that  it  is  possible  for  a  woman 
to  be  what  he  would  have  wished  for  his  son." 


88  THE  THRESHOLD 

"Will  you  stay  here  and  let  me  help  you  all  I  can,  An- 
tonia?"  asked  Peter. 

An  hour  later  Cleve  Harkness  came  into  the  office  and 
Peter  told  him  that  he  had  engaged  Antonia  Christy  as 
copying  clerk.  He  watched  Cleve's  face  quizzically  as  this 
intelligence  reached  him,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  his 
partner's  vehement  objection  to  the  scheme. 

"Good  Lord,  Withrow,  what  did  you  do  that  for?"  was 
the  other's  protest.  "Antonia  knows  nothing  about  business. 
She's  self-taught,  and  we  could  have  a  dozen  trained  secre 
taries  for  the  asking — " 

"That's  what  they  would  have  been — trained  secretaries," 
Peter  admitted  equably.  "But  Antonia  wants  to  be  some 
thing  better  than  that.  She's  our  apprentice,  Harkness.  In 
two  or  three  years  she'll  probably  be  a  member  of  the  firm." 

Cleve  threw  him  an-  incredulous  glance.  "You  can't  be 
serious.  She  is  not  thinking  of — law." 

"Just  that.  Why  not?  The  men  of  her  family  have 
always  been  legal  lights.  She  has  the  brains  that  would 
have  belonged  to  a  Christy  son — and  her  father  is  one  of 
the  best  read  men  in,  the  state.  It  is  only  his  antiquated 
ideas  that  prevent  her  from  reading  with  him." 

A  slow  angry  flush  began  to  creep  into  Cleve's  face.  The 
light  twitching  of  the  muscles  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
betrayed  the  protests  he  wished  to  utter  yet  controlled,  but 
he  could  not  keep  the  sneer  from  his  voice.  "I  suppose 
you  encouraged  her  in  this  nonsense.  .  .  .  We'll  be  ridicu 
lous  in  the  eyes  of  the  town — " 

"Why  should  we  try  to  please  the  town.  ...  It  will 
fall  in  line  soon  enough  when  Antonia  shows  what  she  can 
do.  .  .  ."  Unconsciously  Peter  was  quoting  Antonia  herself 
and  he  saw  that  Cleve  recognized  the  argument. 

"That's   suffragette  talk,"  the  younger  man   said   impa- 


THE  THRESHOLD  89 

tiently.  "What  if  she  has  a  brain — any  amount  of  brain? 
Why  should  we  have  her  here  ?  Antonia  is  not  fit  for  office 
routine  and  will  spend  half  her  time  learning  the  ropes, 
while  we  struggle  to  remember  that  she  is  an  old  friend 
and  mustn't  be  scolded.  Why  didn't  you  send  her  over 
to  Wickersham's  ?  There're  a  half  dozen  girls  there  and 
between  them  they'd  have  taken  off  the  raw  edges." 

The  look  that  he  hated  came  into  Peter's  eyes.  "Antonia 
has  no  raw  edges,"  Peter  said,  "and  while  we're  on  the 
subject  perhaps  I'd  better  explain  that  the  affair  is  between 
her  and  myself.  If  I  undertake  Antonia's  education  it  must 
be  after  methods  of  my  own.  I  don't  believe  I'd  care  to 
share  my  first  pupil  with  any  one." 

Cleve  answered  in  a  furious  tone,  "When  old  Christy 
hears  of  it  there'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay.  I  refuse  to  accept 
any  of  the  blame.  I  am  certain  he  knows  nothing  about  it." 

"Probably  not.  But  he  will  before  Antonia  comes  here. 
She's  to  have  a  talk  with  him  to-night,  I  believe." 

The  differences  of  these  two  always  stopped  on  the  edge 
of  an  open  break.  For  a  reason  unacknowledged  by  both 
they  avoided  a  serious  encounter  and  had  fallen  into  the 
dangerous  habit  of  frank  speech.  Between  other  men  this 
would  have  proved  disastrous,  but  Cleve  and  Peter  were 
upon  a  sort  of  mental  leash  that  always  pulled  them  asunder 
when  their  teeth  were  bared;  and  they  submitted  to  this 
because  of  the  invisible  forces  which,  unknown  to  them 
selves,  held  them  where  they  must  touch  each  other  daily, 
even  while  they  rebelled  helplessly  at  the  contact. 

The  affair  of  Antonia  Christy  was  not  mentioned  again 
between  them  that  day,  though  it  was  present  in  the  mind 
of  each  through  all  the  details  of  the  afternoon.  Already 
the  young  firm  was  busier  than  it  had  a  right  to  be  in  a 
town  overflowing  with  young  lawyers  who  had  served  their 


90  THE  THRESHOLD 

country.  Cleve  had  been  correct  in  his  estimate  of  the 
importance  of  the  Withrow  connection,  for  under  its  persua 
sion  clients  appeared  who  might  otherwise  have  doubted. 
He  admitted  this  with  the  reservation  that,  when  he  had 
proved  himself,  these  same  people  who  placed  a  man's  origin 
before  his  brains  would  remain  loyal  to  his  cleverness,  not 
Peter's  name  and  money.  Looking  into  a  bright  future, 
Cleve  could  not  visualize  failure.  Presently  he  would  be 
strong  enough  to  stand  alone  and  then  he  would  banish  Peter 
and  obligations  to  Peter  from  his  mind,  just  as  other  disa 
greeable  things  had  been  banished.  He  rejoiced  in  his 
faculty  for  making  friends.  He  would  have  made  a  friend 
of  Peter  had  that  been  possible,  but  the  other  seemed 
determined  to  affront  him  whenever  he  could.  Cleve  had 
never  quite  rid  his  mind  of  the  suspicion  that  Peter  was 
in  love  with  Rose,  and  that  jealousy  was  at  the  bottom  of 
these  frequent  disagreements.  This  theory  flattered  him  and 
explained  everything.  It  gave  him  the  right  to  be  magnani 
mous.  Rose's  name  had  become  a  carefully  guarded  subject 
between  the  two,  and  this  silence  served  to  augment  Cleve's 
certainty.  .  .  .  When  he  was  away  from  Peter's  sardonic 
tongue  he  forgot  rancour  and  was  even  sorry  for  his 
unlucky  friend — for  Cleve  had  none  of  those  ugly  faults — 
malice,  unkindness,  or  hatred  of  his  fellow  men.  The  world 
had  been  good  to  him  and  it  was  getting  better  every  day 
and  he  loved  the  world  as  he  loved  life.  He  had  a  hundred 
friends  where  other  men  had  two,  and  all  he  asked  of  these 
friends  was  that  they  help  him,  when  they  could,  a  little 
further  on  the  road  he  traveled  so  steadily.  .  .  . 

He  had  not  seen  Antonia  for  a  long  time ;  he  had  almost 
forgotten  her,  and  her  unexpected  emergence  from  obscurity 
was  an  irksome  thought  that  annoyed  as  it  intruded  upon 
him.  He  wished  he  might  see  her  for  a  moment,  but 


THE  THRESHOLD  91 

there  was  no  chance  of  that.  He  could  not  call  at  the 
house  now,  for  he  had  never  called  there  since  his  return. 
There  was  not  a  chance  in  a  thousand  of  meeting  her  on 
the  street  if  he  walked  about  for  hours,  and,  finally,  weary 
of  the  reiteration,  he  tried  to  dismiss  the  whole  matter 
from  his  thoughts,  consoling  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
it  couldn't  happen.  Antonia  would  be  prevented  from 
intruding  herself  where  she  was  manifestly  out  of  place. 
Cleve  wras  one  of  the  many  men  who  rather  helplessly  rail 
at  women  for  emerging  persistently  from  the  place  where 
Nature  and  custom  has  settled  them.  He  was  certain  that 
he  could  have  talked  Antonia  out  of  the  notion  in  half  an 
hour  if  he  could  have  seen  her  alone. 


CHAPTER  X 

ANTONIA  waited  to  have  her  talk  with  her  father  until 
supper  was  over  and  he  had  gone  out  on  the  front 
porch  to  read  the  evening  paper.  Mrs.  Christy  was  gravi 
tating  between  the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room,  unconscious 
of  the  impending  storm,  when  the  sound  of  their  voices 
reached  her.  She  listened  for  a  moment,  then  put  down 
the  plates  she  was  holding  and  went  to  the  door. 

Since  Antonia's  childhood  she  had  known  that  these 
two  were  "set  against  each  other,"  and  she  was  always  on 
the  alert  to  make  herself  a  buffer  between  them  at  the  first 
hint  of  conflict.  But  now  perspicuity  had  failed  her  and 
she  stood  working  her  fingers  together,  listening  to  the  be 
ginning  of  a  cataclysmic  scene. 

Antonia  leaned  against  one  of  the  rotting  pillars,  facing 
her  father  who  sat  in  the  old  hammock  chair.  The  Cresston 
Evening  Herald  was  on  his  knees  and  his  pipe,  suspended 
between  two  fingers,  had  the  appearance  of  being  shocked 
into  immobility.  He  was  looking  at  his  daughter  from 
beneath  heavy,  graying  brows,  and  his  head  began  to  sway 
slightly  to  and  fro  as  the  meaning  of  her  words  came  to 
him,  as  an  old  bull  sways,  taunted  by  some  half-forgotten 
menace  of  its  youth.  Antonia  had  finished  her  low  rapid 
speech  before  her  mother  came  to  the  door,  but  Mrs.  Christy 
was  in  time  to  hear  his  reply. 

"You  are  going  to  work — work — for  Peter  Withrow? 
Is  that  what  you  said — ?"  he  demanded  in  a  thick  voice. 

92 


THE  THRESHOLD  93 

"Oh,  Antonia — "  interjected  her  mother,  murmurously. 
"Oh,  Antonia!  What  have  you  done?" 

He  turned  to  her.  "What  do  you  know  of  this,  madam  ? 
How  much  of  it  is  your  fault?" 

"Don't  blame  my  mother."  Antonia  interrupted  quickly, 
and  though  she  did  not  move,  the  impression  was  given 
that  her  body  was  between  them,  holding  them  away  from 
each  other.  "You  know,  father,  that  I  have  always  wanted 
this.  It  is  what  I  have  lived  for." 

He  gave  her  a  long  look  and  his  head  rolled  a  little  to 
one  side.  A  faint,  purplish  color  began  to  creep  over  his 
neck  to  his  cheeks,  which  became  blotched  with  this  ugly 
flush.  "I  know  nothing  about  what  you  want  .  .  .  you  will 
stay  at  home  and  help  your  mother.  ...  I  will  see  With- 
row  in  the  morning  .  .  .  not  the  boy — his  father." 

"If  you  prevent  me  from  going  into  that  office,"  said 
Antonia  clearly,  just  as  she  had  spoken  to  Peter,  "I  shall 
go  elsewhere.  I  am  twenty-one  and  my  life  is  my  own." 

"If  your  life  is  your  own,  you  may  live  it  elsewhere  than 
under  my  roof,"  he  responded,  the  purple  deepening.  "You 
cannot  stay  here  and  insult  me.  Christy  women  have  never 
been  degraded.  .  .  .  You  will  be  the  first.  .  .  .  Don't 
argue.  ...  I  will  not  hear  any  more." 

He  was  gasping  a  little,  but  he  picked  up  the  paper  as 
though  he  meant  to  read  and  his  fingers  tightened  on  the 
pipe.  But  Antonia  was  not  deceived.  She  knew  that  he 
was  suffering,  that  she  was  the  cause  of  his  pain,  and  that 
these  movements  were  mere  pretexts  to  cover  his  emotion. 
She  could  not  bear  to  part  from  him  like  this — to  let  a  night 
solidify  his  resentment  toward  herself.  It  was  difficult 
for  her  to  make  overtures,  but  she  went  to  him  tenderly. 

"Listen,  father,"  she  said,  "why  won't  you  let  me  help 
you  instead  of  mother?  Give  me  a  chance — try  me — " 


94  THE  THRESHOLD 

He  got  up  heavily.  "I  shall  see  Withrow  in  the  morning," 
he  said,  and  went  into  the  house;  passing  Mrs.  Christy  who 
shrank  against  the  wall. 

During  this  brief  encounter  the  voices  of  father  and 
daughter  had  barely  been  raised  above  their  ordinary  tones 
and  the  words  themselves  were  simple  and  unemphatic,  but 
to  Mrs.  Christy's  ears  the  fret  of  a  dying  nation  could  have 
been  no  more  appalling.  She  wrung  her  hands  and  whis 
pered  over  again,  "Antonia !  What  have  you  done !" 

Antonia  turned  her  face  away.  She  could  not  bear  to 
look  at  her  mother,  for  it  was  like  gazing  into  a  wound 
which  she  herself  had  made.  What  had  she  done?  Her 
heart  quivered  with  the'  newness  of  the-  break  between 
herself  and  her  parents.  She  was  like  a  little  child  leaving 
a  lighted  doorway  to  go-  forward  alone  in  the  dark,  and 
there  was  enough  of  the  child  yet  remaining  in  her  to 
wonder  if  her  father  meant  all  he  had  said.  Unconsciously 
her  mother  answered  this  question. 

"You  can't  go  against  your  father,  child.  You  know  how 
set  he  is.  He's  showed  us  all  these  years  that  he  won't 
bend—" 

But  neither  would  Antonia  bend.  Fear  passed  and  she 
grasped  resolution  again.  She  smiled  into  the  shadows  that 
were  turning  to  blackness  under  the  trees. 

The  lights  of  the  town  began  to  shine  like  glow  worms 
through  the  thick-leafed  branches  that  canopied  the  streets. 
Faint  sounds  of  the  awakening  life  of  evening  came  to  them  ; 
the  shrill  whistle  of  a  marauding  boy ;  the  gay  horn  of  a 
motor;  the  clanging  of  a  street  car  bell.  All  these  little 
things,  so  commonplace  in  their  way,  spelled  freedom  to 
Antonia.  She  was  going  to  be  a  part  of  them  to-morrow. 
She  would  have  a  place  of  her  own,  even  in  the  smallness  of 
Cresston.  Some  day  her  hands  would  help  to  make  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  95 

wheels  of  progress  go  round ;  she  looked  down  upon  their 
slimness  now — their  idleness  was  appalling. 

Mrs.  Christy  thought  her  warning  had  conquered.  She 
could  not  picture  actual  disobedience  from'  one  of  her  chil 
dren  and  her  volatile  mind  rejected  the  importance  of  what 
she  had  overheard. 

With  the  intention  of  diverting  Antonia's  thoughts,  she 
came  to  the  steps  and  peered  into  the  shadowy  street,  where 
girls  were  strolling  with  their  arms  around  other  girls  and 
small  boys  were  darting  back  and  forth  like  gnomes.  She 
could  not  discover  her  Own  *nong  them  and  she  began  to 
fret. 

"I  am  positive  that  Donnie  is  with  those  Judson  boys 
again.  I  don't  trust  the  red-haired  one.  He  has  a  strange 
countenance  and  it  is  quite  impossible  to  make  him  look 
you  in  the  face.  Every  evening  Donnie  loiters  for  a  full 
half  hour  at  their  corner.  I  have  watched  them,  and  I  say 
that  it  must'  cease.  Antonia,  will  you  walk  to  the  next 
block  with  me  ?  I  am.  not  afraid,  of  course,  but  the  shadow 
of  those  elms  is  rather  dense." 

Long  after  they  returned  with  the  reluctant  Donnie  and 
the  house  had  grown  silent  from  his  protests,  Roscoe  Christy 
got  up  heavily  from  the  chair  where  he  had  been  sitting  since 
he  came  into  the  middle  room.  It  was  bedtime  and  he 
fulfilled  all  the  small  duties  that  were  the  custom  of  a  life 
time.  When  he  had  attended  to  these  there  was  only  the 
watch  left  to  wind. 

He  took  it  from  the  peg  against  the  wall  above  the  fire 
place,  but  before  he  touched  the  key  he  looked  long  and 
somberly  at  the  round  face  that  lay  in  his  hand.  He  had 
not  misconstrued  Antonia's  silence  as  surrender,  for  in  her 
he  saw  himself  and  the  will  that  all  through  his  life  had 
been  like  a  crushing  weight  against  his  breast,  forcing  him 


96  THE  THRESHOLD 

inexorably  into  a  course  from  which  all  his  tender  impulses 
rebelled.  He  knew  that  she  had  not  spoken  until  what  she 
meant  to  do  was  irrevocable,  and  during  the  hours  just 
passed  he  had  been  thinking  what  to  do.  There  were  but 
two  ways.  He  could  yield  to  her  will  or  he  could  hold  to 
his  own. 

But  he  had  not  yet  found  the  answer.  Presently  he  began 
to  wind  the  watch  slowly  in  even,  regular  rotation.  Every 
night  for  years  and  years  the  watch  had  been  wound.  It 
never  ran  down  and  its  grim,  small  hands  moved  endlessly 
on,  as  though  marking  time  for  eternity.  He  returned  it 
to  ks  piace  and  it  began  its  journey,  boldly  counting  the 
seconds  in  clear,  loud,  infinitesimal  strokes,  as  though  it 
meant  to  continue  this  forever.  He  turned  away,  comforted 
in  a  small  measure.  ...  In  some  obscure  way  the  watch 
seemed  to  symbolize  a  link  between  the  dead  years  and  the 
present.  While  its  hands  still  moved  the  thin  thread  that 
bound  the  family  to  its  days  of  pride  could  not  be  broken. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CLEVE  HARKNESS  had  never  missed  a  Country  Club 
dance  since  his  meteoric  entrance  into  Cresston  society, 
and  if  in  the  beginning  he  made  a  point  of  this  for  the 
purpose  of  cultivating  social  clients,  his'  purpose  gradually 
changed  until  another  and  far  different  object  became  para 
mount.  The  Saturday  night  dance  gave  him  a  chance  to 
see  Rose  Dupagny  with  a  freedom  which  the  rest  of  the 
week  did  not  afford. 

His  visits  to  her  house  had  almost  ceased,  for  Rose  was 
a  little  disturbe'cl  by  her  husband's  obstinate  jealousy,  and 
had  confided  this  annoyance  to-  her  friend.  They  agreed 
that  it  was  best  to  yield  something  to  the  unreasonableness 
of  Laurence  Dupagny. 

Rose  was  impatient  at  the  restriction  so  suddenly  placed 
upon  hef  actions  by  the  man  who,  she  considered,  had  lost 
his  right  to  dictate  to  her.  She  could  not  recall  the  time 
when  she  had  not  amused  herself  with  other  men  and  her 
husband's  indifference  to  this  was  one  of  the  early  reasons 
for  her  loss  of  respect  for  him.  He  had  always  urged  her 
to  interest  the  men  whose  favor  he  was  seeking  and  she 
believed  his  dislike  for  Cleve  to  be  merely  impatience  at 
her  alliance  with  a  source  he  considered  unimportant  and 
unproductive.  That  is,  in  the  beginning  she  had  made 
herself  believe  this,  but  of  late  she  had  not  faced  the 
question  honestly. 

The  weekly  dance  gave  the  two  an  opportunity  to  be 

97 


98  THE  THRESHOLD 

together  under  the  good-natured  chaperonage  of  their 
friends  who  were  tolerant  of  married  flirtations.  The  roster 
of  the  club  included  nearly  everybody  of  importance  in 
Cresston,  but  the  handful  of  women  who  really  dictated  the 
social  life  of  the  town  saw  to  it  that  the  little  dances  included 
only  those  whose  secret  fellowship  made  them  persons  of 
gayety  and  discretion. 

Only  here  among  her  intimates  did  Rose  venture  to  let 
the  excitement  and  glamor  of  this  new  interest  sway  her 
from  her  careful  poise.  She  believed  in  these  women;  they 
had  a  thousand  secrets  like  her  own,  tumultuous  and  poig 
nant  ;  pausing  at  the  very  edge  of  reality ;  gazing  into  the 
heart  of  an  impossible  happiness,  yet  thrilled  with  fear  at 
the  thought  of  touching  this  forbidden  paradise.  She  did 
not  fear  betrayal  from  them  or  serious  hurt  from  this  expe 
rience.  She  believed  it  would  pass  as  other  fancies  had 
passed. 

Qeve  accepted  the  restrictions  placed  upon  his  friend 
ship  with  Rose  in  a  less  quiescent  manner.  At  times  he 
was  coldly  angry  with  himself  for  having  yielded  so  com 
pletely  to  the  influence  of  a  woman,  reviewing  with  alarm 
the  inroads  which  the  affair  was  making  on  his  time,  but 
a  day  spent  away  from  her  and  the  sound  of  her  voice 
always  stripped  him  of  these  mental  calculations  which 
ordered  him  to  throw  this  passion  into  the  discard. 

After  Rose  telephoned  on  Saturday  morning  he  was 
in  a  fever  of  impatience  until  the  moment  came  when  they 
could  meet.  She  explained  carefully  the  directions  which 
he  was  to  follow  so  that  even  their  friends  would  be 
deceived.  The  Dupagnys  were  dining  with  Willetta  Porter 
and  the  two  young  women  would  drive  to  the  club  later, 
with  Rose's  husband  as  escort.  Rose  made  it  very  clear 


THE  THRESHOLD  99 

that   Cleve  was   to  stay  away   from   her  until   the  middle 
of  the  evening. 

The  time  stretched  like  a  desert  before  him  and  the 
thought  of  being  in  the  same  room  with  her  and  unable  to 
claim  her  at  once  was  unendurable.  He  thought  of  his 
father  and  the  tw'o  hours  that  must  elapse  before  he  could 
start  for  the  club,  and  which  might  be  employed  in  one  of 
the  infrequent  visits  to  the  old  second  hand  dealer  which 
conscience  demanded  of  him. 

Old  Saul  no  longer  lived  in  the  room  behind  the  store, 
but  occupied  a  small  cottage  in  the  older  part  of  town  wrhere, 
to  his  astonishment,  Cleve  found  him  in  bed. 

Such  a  phenomenon  had  never  happened  before  and  Cleve 
was  almost  embarrassed  by  the  familiarity  of  such  a  meet 
ing.  But  his  father  scouted  the  notion  of  illness.  He  was 
merely  resting,  he  said.  The  summer  had  been  unnaturally 
hot ;  Cresston  water  was  bad ;  he  had  a  dozen  excuses  for 
his  indisposition  which  he  insisted  was  of  no  consequence. 
Cleve  thought  that  he  looked  like  a  repulsive  image, 
propped  among  the  frowzy  pillows,  but  he  carefully  excluded 
this  unfilial  fancy  from  his  expression  as  he  inquired  so 
licitously  after  his  father's  well-being.  He  was  far  too  sensi 
tive  to  public  opinion  to  risk  its  censure  by  neglecting  the 
old  man  who  had  so  cruelly  neglected  his  own  childhood. 
"You  must  have  a  doctor,"  he  said,  as  he  got  up  to  go. 
"I  will  send  Heppleton  over  in  the  morning — "  adding  as 
an  afterthought  and  with  unconscious  sarcasm,  "I'll  pay 
for  the  call,  of  course." 

As  he  was  going  out  of  the  room,  he  heard  his  father 
laughing  in  a  strained  high  tone  that  in  some  way  reminded 
him  of  Peter's  laughter  when  he  was  accused  of  being  in 
love  with  Rose.  He  was  unreasonably  annoyed  by  this,  for 


100  THE  THRESHOLD 

it  seemed  to  imply  obscurely  that  he  was  the  subject  of 
mirth  for  which  he  possessed  no  key. 

"Why  are  you  laughing?"  he  demanded,  frowning  from 
the  threshold  of  the  cluttered  room. 

Old  Saul  choked.  "Your  kindness.  I  am  so  grateful 
for  the  doctor — but  remember,  you're  to  pay.  I  can't  afford 
such  nonsense,  of  course." 

His  son  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  He  recognized 
mockery  without  relation  to  this  dried  husk  in  whom  laugh 
ter  was  incredible  and  unreal.  But  he  was  too  anxious 
to  escape  from  the  unwholesome  place  to  ask  more  questions ; 
he  had  a  fastidious  desire  to  cleanse  himself  by  contact 
with  the  fresh  air  ouside,  before  the  doubtful  aroma  of 
poverty  and  squalor  identified  itself  with  his  clothing  and 
such  portions  of  his  body  as  had  been  forced  to  meet  it.  But 
he  was  not  to  avoid  all  this  so  easily  after  all,  for  old  Saul, 
sitting  up  suddenly,  beckoned  with  a  dreadful,  skinny  arm 
for  his  return. 

"You've  gone  along  with  the  best  of  'em,  haven't  you, 
boy  ?"  he  said,  letting  his  eyes  rove  over  the  young  man's 
figure'  down  to  his  white  spats,  incongruously  perfect  before 
the  background  of  the  room.  Cleve  felt  his  patience  leaving 
him  as  his  soul  sickened  before  the  proof  of  his  origin  which 
never  failed  to  daunt  him. 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say-?"  he  asked,  impatient  to  be 
gone. 

"I  hear  you're  doing  well  in  your  business,"  the  old  man 
went  on.  "You've  managed  yourself  well.  You're  a  son 
to  be  proud  of.  You'll  know  how  to  take  care  of  money 
when  you  get  it." 

But  Cleve  had  had  enough  of  this.  He  shook  off  his 
father's  hand  and  turned  resolutely  to  the  door.  "I've  got 
to  go  now.  I'm  due  somewhere  in  an  hour.  Try  to  take 


THE  THRESHOLD  101 

care  of  yourself  and  eat  decent  food.     Ill  tell  Heppleton  to 
look  after  you." 

When  he  was  in  the  street  he  shook  himself  mentally  and 
physically  to  be  rid  of  the  effluvia  of  such  surroundings. 
"Pah,"  he  thought,  with  disgust  of  himself,  "to  have  come 
from  that !" 

The  encounter  with  his  past  was  so  depressing  that,  for 
the  moment,  even  the  prospect  of  seeing  Rose  lost  its  allure 
and  he  walked  aimlessly  through  the  dusky,  elm  shaded 
streets  of  the  old  town,  gloomily  desirous  of  conquering  the 
memories  which  beset  him. 

It  was  a  night  of  threatened  rain  and  the  humid,  oppres 
sive  atmosphere  and  splashing  drops  that  fell  now  and  then 
had  driven  the  summer  night  strollers  to  the  shelter  of  their 
porches  where  they  watched  breathlessly  for  the  storm  to 
break.  The  street  was  empty  but  Cleve  could  see  the  dim 
shapes  of  these  people  huddled  together  in  ridiculous  safety, 
hiding  under  roof  and  shingles  from  the  clean  downpour 
that  would  come  presently.  Without  realizing  it  they  pre 
ferred  the  dust. 

He  had  walked  from  his  rooms  to  his  father's  howse  and, 
returning,  the  blocks  seemed  unnaturally  long  and  tedious. 
He  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  neighborhood  and  the 
associations  that  seemed  to  lay  live  hands  upon  him,  drag 
ging  him  back  to  ignominy.  He  had  come  far,  but  not  far 
enough  to  forget.  .  .  .  He  thought  of  Rose,  so  beautiful 
and  dainty.  What  would  she  think  of  the  sordidness  of  his 
past  if  she  could  know  it  as  it  really  was?  When  he 
recalled  the  old  man  in  his  filthy  room  and  the  close  kinship 
between  himself  and  that  condition,  contrasting  this  picture 
with  Rose  waiting  in  her  immaculateness  for  him,  he  shud 
dered,  wondering  if  he  dared  touch  her  when  they  met. 

A  figure,  coming  suddenly  from  the  thick  darkness,  almost 


102  THE  THRESHOLD 

collided  with  him  in  passing,  and  he  recognized  it  with 
the  swift  readjustment  of  the  faculties  which  an  unexpected 
meeting  brings.  It  was  Antonia  Christy  and  she  was  carry 
ing  a  heavy  suitcase  that  caused  her  slight  body  to  bend 
toward  him  in  her  effort  to  balance  the  weight. 

He  stopped  short,  forgetting,  in  a  swift  rush  of  surprise, 
the  thoughts  which  had  troubled  him. 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  encounter  left  them  both 
speechless,  staring  fixedly  at  each  other  for  a  moment. 
Antonia's  face,  springing  delicately  from  the  thick  darkness, 
held  a  faint  illumination  such  as  is  seen  on  the  wings  of  a 
white  moth.  It  was  as  though,  her  bodiless  presence  hung 
there  suspended  before  his  eyes,  recalling  him  from'  the 
brooding  fancies  of  retrospection.  But  his  material  mind 
rejected  this  impression  as  it  was  formed. 

"Where  are  you  going,  'Antonia?"  he  cried  in  a  sort  of 
alarm.  For  weeks  he  had  hardly  remembered  her  exis-tence, 
yet  to  see  her  now,  alone  in  'the  street  at  nightfall,  when 
every  one  had  vanished  before  the  coming  storm,  brought  a 
sense  of  shock  as  though  he  must  witness  a  threatened  hurt 
to  some  cherished  thing.  His  mind  abandoned  everything 
but  the  fact  that  she  was  here.  He  asked  again  before  she 
could  reply,  "Where  are  you  going?" 

Her  surprise  at  the  encounter  was  equal  to  his  own,  but 
she  recovered  herself  no  less  quickly.  She  had  been  walking 
very  slowly,  her  slight  body  sagging  under  the  weight  of  the 
heavy  bag.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  a  luminous  smile 
dawned  in  her  troubled  eyes  and  in  spite  of  her  clumsy 
burden  she  stood  erect.  "I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Miller's 
boarding-house,"  she  answered  simply.  "I  am  to  live 
there." 

"Live  there !  You — "  his  words  crowded  upon  each 
other,  "what  do  you  mean —  What  has  happened?"  He 


THE  THRESHOLD  103 

was  too  amazed  to  speak  coherently.  What  she  said  was 
like  a  puzzle  forced  upon,  his  unwilling  comprehension 
which  must  find  the  answer.  He  waited  for  her  to  explain, 
with  a  queer,  cruel  tenderness  that  longed  to  punish  while 
he  defended  her  action. 

The  heavy  darkness  of  the  laden  sky  pressed  upon  them ; 
the  air  was  so  still  and  lifeless  that  the  faint  intake  of 
Antonia's  breath  made  a  vibration  of  sound,  startling  and 
infinitesimal.  Even  the  stray  raindrops  were  withheld  for 
the  moment  as  though  to  gain  momentum  for  the  onslaught 
that  was  to  follow. 

The  dim  outline  of  her  face  was  appealing  and  soft,  but 
her  voice  had  a  grave  resoluteness  when  she  said,  continuing 
her  explanation,  "I  have  left  home  .  .  .  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do." 

He  turned  about  to  walk  with  her,  for  she  had  barely 
paused  to  listen  or  reply.  He  did  this  unwillingly ;  angry 
with  her  for  having  intruded  herself  upon  his  thoughts,  yet 
forced  to  comply  with-  some  inner  command  widely  at 
variance  with  his  conscious  desire.  They  had  walked  a 
little  way  side  by  side  in  silence  before  he  remembered  the 
suitcase  and  took  it  from  her,  disregarding  her  gentle 
protest. 

"I  will  go  with  you  to  Mrs.  Miller's,  if  you  are  deter 
mined  to  do  this  insane  thing,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of 
roughness.  "You  can't  go  running  around  town  alone. 
It's  going  to  rain  in  a  minute." 

She  yielded  docilely,  because  it  was  not  her  way  to 
combat  immaterial  actions  and  Cleve-  was  not  deceived  by 
this.  He  knew  that  Antonia,  when  seeming  most  gentle, 
could  be  most  adamant,  and  for  a  time  they  went  on  in 
silence  while  he  searched  his  mind  for  an  argument  to 
bring  against  her  purpose.  .  .  .  The  rising  wind  was  in 


104  THE  THRESHOLD 

their  faces  and  the  dust,  blowing  in  clouds  before  it,  envel 
oped  them  in  a  bewildering  summer  fury.  The  smell  of  rain 
was  keen  in  the  air  and  the  branches  of  the  trees  lashed 
each  other  impoitently.  ...  In  the  -houses  along  the  way 
people  were  shutting  windows,  fastening  awnings,  and  talk 
ing  to  one  another  in  shrill,  high,  nervous  voices  as  though 
the  storm  were  a  menace  they  must  unite  against.  But 
Cleve  and  Antonia  gave  no  attention  to  what  was  so  immi 
nent  and  had  destroyed  the  peace  of  the  summer  night. 
Even  when  the  rain,  quick  and  cold,  dashed  a  shower  of 
fine  spray  in  their  faces,  they  merely  lowered  their  heads 
and  went  doggedly  on.  They  were  nearly  to  their  desti 
nation,  the  house  on  Thelma  Avenue,  where  Cleve  himself 
had  once  lived,  when  he  began  to  speak  in  a  sort  of  furious 
haste. 

"You  can't  do  this,  Antonia!  You  must  go  back  home. 
It's  the  most  insane  thing  I  ever  heard  of.  This  is  all 
Withrow's  doing;  if  he  hadn't  encouraged  you  in  that 
notion  of  yours  you  wouldn't  be  here  to-night.  Come  now, 
let's  go  back.  I'll  talk  to  the  Judge  myself.  He'll  listen 
to  me — I'll  explain  everything — " 

They  stopped  at  a  corner.  The  tall  brown  house  which 
was  Antonia's  objective,  loomed  in  the  middle  of  a  block 
of  insignificant,  pigmy  cottages  where  the  poor  of  Cresston 
lived.  The  rain  was  coming  down  in  earnest  now,  and  in  an 
instant  the  heat  of  summer  was  gone  and  they  were 
wrapped  in  wetness  and  chill.  As  Cleve  faced  the  way 
they  had  come,  Antonia  made  as  determined  a  movement 
toward  the  poverty  of  the  unfamiliar  street.  .  .  . 

"I  am  not  going  back,"  she  said  steadily.  "It  is  not 
Peter's  fault.  .  .  .  You  do  not  understand.  ...  I  cannot 
think  why — " 

What  she  wanted  to  say  was  that  Cleve  of  all  men  should 


THE  THRESHOLD  105 

be  the  one  to  understand  her  motives  and  to  applaud  them. 
He  had  himself  struggled  against  insuperable  obstacles  and 
had  succeeded.  He  had  felt  the  call  of  ambition  through 
poverty  and  isolation,  and  by  force  of  will  brought  himself 
through  the  mass  of  inconceivable  hardship  and  doubt  that 
would  have  crushed  a  lesser"  man.  In  this  she  knew  that 
she  had  helped  him  a  little  years  ago  by  her  belief  and 
praise,  as  he  should  have  helped  her  now.  But  she  could 
not  put  any  of  this  in  words-;  it  lay  too  deep  within  her 
heart.  Instead,  she  found-,  excuses  for  him ;  she  tried  to 
take  the  suitcase  from  his  hand  but  he  resisted,  continuing 
his  low-voiced  protests.  .  .  .  "You  must  go  back, 
Antonia.  .  .  ." 

But  at  last  he  saw  this  was  futile.  .  .  .  "Very  well.  If 
you  are  determined —  "  he  said  in  an  exasperated  tone  and 
with  the  air  of  abandoning  himself  to  what  was  inexplicable. 
He  walked  with  her  to  Mrs.  Miller's  door,  astonished  to  find 
himself  standing  on  a  spot  he  had  thought  of  as  belonging 
to  a  part  of  his  existence  that  was  completely  banished. 

"You  will  think  differently  of  this  in  the  morning,"  he 
said  while  they  stood  together  on  the  porch,  waiting  for  Mrs. 
Miller  to  answer  the  jangling  bell.  "You'll  go  back  home 
to-morrow,  Antonia.  Promise  me  that  you  will." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  think  so.  You  see, 
my  father  doesn't  want  me  back  unless  I  change  into  some 
thing  which  I  am  not  and  have  never  been — or  pretend 
to  change,  which  would  be  as  bad." 

There  was  no  time  to  say  more,  for  they  saw  Mrs.  Miller 
coming  along  the  hall,  her  face  wearing  a  suspicious  expres 
sion,  as  if  the  motives  of  persons  ringing  a  doorbell  during 
a  storm  might  well  be  looked  into.  When  she  recognized 
her  visitors  she  concealed  her  surprise  and  interest  admir 
ably  beneath  a  professionally  warm  welcome  and  soon 


106  THE  THRESHOLD 

Antonia  was  telling  Cleve  good-by  and  thanking  him  for 
coming  with  her.  ...  It  was  raining  tumultuously  by  this 
time  and  he  had  come  inside  to  telephone  for  a  taxi.  .  .  . 

It  had  all  become  commonplace  and  ordinary;  there  was 
no  longer  a  hint  of  the  conflict  forcing  its  way  to  their 
mute  lips — destroying  reserve  and  threatening  disaster  to 
carefully  built  plans. 

They  stood  inside  the  door  with  Mrs.  Miller,  a  nervous 
chaperone,  hovering  in  the  background,  and  the  certainty 
that  other  eyes  were  lurking  behind  doors,  confirming  what 
eager  ears  listened  to,  increased  the  irritation  which  had 
been  growing  in  Cleve  until  the  time  he  was  forced  to  wait 
became  interminable.  Fleeting  thoughts  of  Rose  began  to 
recur.  His  appointment  with  her ;  the  lateness  of  the  hour ; 
the  difficulty  of  getting  to  the  Club  .  .  .  missing  this  oppor 
tunity  long  waited  for,  of  being  with  her.  .  .  . 

Finally  the  lights  of  the  taxi,  shining  palely  through  the 
rain,  came  creeping  to  Mrs.  Miller's  respectable  door,  and 
with  this  the  end  of  his  self-imposed  duty.  He  was  almost 
audibly  impatient  to  have  done  with  it;  the  stubbornness 
which  rejected  advice  and  the  pleasant  doctrine  of  conven 
tion.  .  .  .  He  muttered  a  hasty  good-by  to  Antonia  and 
the  landlady,  and  ran  lightly  down  the  steps.  He  felt  him 
self  pleasantly  cleansed  of  responsibility.  The  quick  slam 
of  the  taxi  door  thrust  him  from  this  mild  adventure  into 
the  exciting  promise  of  the  delightful  world  which  offered 
its  favors  with  full  hands. 

The  slanting  rain,  sweeping  across  the  narrow  porch, 
threatened  Mrs.  Miller's  new  hall  carpet.  She  closed  the 
door  in  agitation  and  addressed  Antonia  Christy,  her  newest 
boarder,  with  a  tight  smile.  .  .  . 

"These  young  men!  Don't  I  know  them  after  eighteen 
years?  What  do  they  care  for  ruining  other  folks'  furni- 


THE  THRESHOLD  107 

ture  and  carpets — though  I  must  say  Mr.  Harkness  is  one 
of  the  neatest  I  have  ever  seen.  It  isn't  like  him  to  leave 
a  door  open  in  the  pouring  rain.  But  any  one  can  see  that 
he  isn't  himself.  ...  I  was  never  more  surprised  in  my 
life  than  when  I  saw  him  walk  in  here  with  you.  ...  I 
thought  you  folks —  Now  if  you'll  walk  right  up,  Miss 
Antonia.  Maggie  finished  your  room  at  five  o'clock  and  I 
hope  you'll  find  everything  to  suit,  but  coming  straight  from 
your  own  home  you  may  be  a  little  strange  at  first.  .  .  . 
I  always  say  'Life  is  what  you  make  it  in  a  boarding  house' 
.  .  .  not  original,  of  course,  but  partly  my  own  idea.  .  .  ." 
This  was  Mrs.  Miller's  habitual  greeting  to  newcomers 
and  in  such  philosophy  was  concealed  a  cunning  excuse  for 
all  shortcomings  of  her  menage,  but  Antonia  did  not  know 
this  and  it  sounded  friendly  and  just  a  little  reminiscent 
of  her  mother  to  her  heart,  already  immeasurably  lonely 
for  what  yesterday  had  been  the  high  wall  that  sheltered 
her  girlhood  from  the  sun  of  life. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MRS.  DUPAGNY,  in  a  frock  totally  unrelated  to 
Cresston,  was  languidly  following  a  highly  special 
ized  partner  around  the  dancing  floor  when  she  caught  sight 
of  Cleve  just  inside  the  door,  his  smooth  head  brushed  to  a 
cap  of  dull  gold,  lifted  above  the  heads  of  other  men  as 
his  restless  eyes  sought,  without  seeming  to  seek,  her  own 
figure  among  the  dancers  that  filled  the  floor. 

A  minute  before  her  heart  had  been  tortured  by  misgiv 
ings  :  had  he  ceased  to  care  ?  Had  he  ever  cared  ?  Or,  hear 
ing  the  lash  of  the  storm  outside,  she  wondered  in  tormented 
uncertainty  if  there  could  have  been  an  accident.  The  un- 
paved  road  to  the  Clubhouse,  unfinished  like  so  many  of 
the  town's  abortive  efforts  to  grow  at  a  leap  to  a  young 
metropolis,  was  a  quagmire  by  this  time,  a  thin  lake  of 
slippery  mud  and  water ;  he  might  be  lying  out  there  some 
where,  injured,  unable  to  come  to  her.  .  .  .  With  the  fatal 
ism  of  women  where  their  hearts  are  concerned,  her  mind 
leaped  at  once  to  disaster.  As  her  slippered  feet  followed 
the  rhythm  of  the  music,  she  longed  to  run  heedlessly 
through  the  rain  and  find  him,  wherever  he  was. 

Yet  when  she  looked  up  and  saw  him  her  face  did  not 
change  and  the  faint  smile  on  her  lips  remained  undeepened. 
Miss  Ethel  Plumey,  watching  from  an  unsought  corner, 
could  see  no  subtle  alteration  in  the  beautiful  face  of  her 
friend. 

The  dance  neared  its  close,  took  heart  with  a  throbbing 

108 


THE  THRESHOLD  109 

recurrence  of  its  wistful  theme,  lingered  upon  this  sporadi 
cally,  and  ended,  leaving  Rose  and  her  partner  near  the 
door  where  Cleve  waited,  gloomily  marooned  in  a  sea  of 
bared  shoulders  and  smooth,  glistening  coiffures.  This 
required  a  bit  of  clever  manipulation  on  the  part  of  Rose 
and  was  unsuspected  by  her  companion,  though  Miss  Plumey 
observed  it  and  smiled  cynically.  The  smile  sharpened  as 
she  witnessed  with  enjoyment  and  interest  the  meeting  of 
the  two  who  engaged  while  they  tormented  her  attention. 

The  doorways  were  surging  with  people  who  were  looking 
for  air  and  ices,  and  Cleve  did  not  see  Rose  until  she  was 
close  beside  him.  And  then  he  sensed  her  presence,  rather 
than  beheld  it,  by  the  intangible,  illusory  cords  that  draw 
lovers  to  one  another.  He  had  been  thinking  of  her,  secure 
in  the  belief  that  his  thoughts  were  hidden  things,  and 
when  he  looked  up  and  saw  her  there,  he  forgot  for  once 
his  mentor,  the  world,  in  the  poignant  and  delicious  shock 
of  his  discovery. 

And  Ro?e,  in  the  delight  of  seeing  him  so  close,  when  an 
hour  ago  he  had  been  far  away,  lifted  the  curtain  of  her 
eyes  long  enough  for  him  to  glimpse  her  heart.  They  moved 
toward  each  other  involuntarily,  forgetting,  in  the  thrill  of 
encounter,  the  hundred  eyes  upon  them ;  the  hundred 
tongues  ready  to  seize  upon  their  weakness  and  betray. 

Nina  Tyson  and  Willetta  Porter,  with  whom  the  Du- 
pagnys  had  dined  that  night,  happened  to  be  standing  side 
by  side  and  the  Tyson  woman,  who  always  saw  a  little 
more  than  really  happened,  said  spitefully  behind  her  fan : 

"Really,  Rose  should  be  a  little  careful  ...  a  boy  like 
that !  He  looks  as  though  he  would  eat  her.  .  .  .  And 
she—" 

" — as  though  she  would  enjoy  being  eaten,"  Willetta 
Porter  finished,  forgetting  duty  to  a  guest  in  the  pleasure 


110  THE  THRESHOLD 

of  winning  a  smile  from  the  other  woman  who  was  notori 
ously  clever.  Their  eyes  met  in  a  look  of  understanding. 
They  were  not  particular  friends,  or  had  not  been  until 
then,  but  they  laughed  together  amicably,  satisfied  that  Rose 
would  provide  them  with  material  for  mirth  in  a  future  that 
was  full  of  possibilities. 

The  two  in  question  moved  lingeringly  through  the 
crowded  room,  apparently  without  object,  but  secure  in 
the  knowledge  that  opportunity  for  untrammeled  speech 
would  be  given  them  presently.  After  the  first  long  look 
they  carefully  avoided  each  other's  eyes,  but,  in  spite  of 
this  restraint  or  because  of  it,  they  found  their  shoulders 
touching  in  faint  and  thrilling  contact  again  and  again.  .  .  . 

The  music  began  again  and  they  danced  until,  in  the 
uproar  of  the  jazz  chorus,  a  curtained  archway  allowed 
them  to  slip  through  to  the  quiet  of  a  little  room  which  had 
grown  familiar  to  both  in  the  past  weeks.  Believing  them 
selves  safe,  they  clung  to  each  other  in  the  attitude  of  the 
dance  for  a  long  silent  moment  that  was  punctuated  by  the 
throb  of  the  distant  instruments,  softened  to  melody  by  the 
thick  hangings. 

"You  are  so  late,"  Rose  complained,  with  a  little  shivery 
laugh,  releasing  herself. 

"A  sort  of  conspiracy,"  Cleve  jested,  trying  to  keep  in 
check  his  rising  excitement.  He  looked  at  her  as  though 
seeing  her  for  the  first  time.  "How  beautiful  you  are 
to-night,  Rose !"  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  awe. 

She  glanced  down  at  her  gown  with  the  gratified  smile 
of  a  flattered  woman.  The  flame  colored  wisp  of  chiffon 
had  cost  an  hour  of  humiliating  tears  and  pleading.  Its 
price,  reluctantly  given,  had  robbed  Laurence  Dupagny's 
creditors  of  a  minimum  payment  on  their  bills.  She  had 
put  it  on  with  bitterness,  hating  the  mean  subterfuges  of 


THE  THRESHOLD  111 

her  life,  for  it  had  also  robbed  her  of  some  of  the  aloofness 
which  she  cherished  and  used  unscrupulously  to  keep  her 
husband  at  a  distance ;  but  now  she  loved  the  gown  again 
ancl  saw  its  beauty  with  triumphant  eyes. 

They  sat  on  the  frivolous  little  cane  settee  and  said  all 
the  unmeaning  things  that  people  say  when  their  hearts  are 
full  of  what  may  not  be  spoken,  and,  beyond  the  partition, 
the  orchestra  blared  and  friends  laughed  and  danced  in  the 
intimacy  of  the  sheltered  place.  And  through  all  this  there 
was  a  dull,  booming  sound — the  rain  beating  continuously 
upon  the  wide  flat  roof. 

But  presently  the  end  came  to  the  idle  things  they  had 
been  saying.  It  was  like  the  sands  of  an  hour  glass  pouring 
into  vacancy  without  replenishment.  Silence  followed. 
Listening,  their  feet  might  have  been  heard  approaching  the 
barrier  that  until  now  had  kept  them  apart.  She  looked  up 
to  find  him  staring  at  her  in  a  sort  of  wonderment,  as  though 
his  eyes  saw  something  beyond  the  present  which  filled 
him  with  incredulity.  His  arms  closed  around  her  in  an 
embrace  that  was  foreign  to  what  they  had  known.  It  was 
inevitable. 

When  he  released  her  he  stepped  back  amazed  at  his  own 
temerity.  He  thought :  "Can  this  be  I  ?"  Rose  to  him.  had 
been  like  a  star  and  now  he  found  her  in  his  hand. 

Rose  herself  was  no  less  overwhelmed,  but  she  asked 
herself  if  she  were  mad.  Her  emotions,  swift  and  tumultu 
ous,  had  thrust  her  into  his  arms,  but  her  mind,  clinging  to 
reason,  rebelled  against  the  appalling  step  to  which  this  yield 
ing  had  led  her.  She  struggled  determinedly  against  the 
power  that  was  becoming  stronger  than  her  will  and  which 
she  recognized  as  an  enemy  to  her  peace.  "I  must  not  give 
way,"  she  said  desperately  to  herself.  ...  "I  know  men. 
I  know  how  it  will  end.  I  must  suffer,  no  matter  what 


112  THE  THRESHOLD 

course  I  take."  But  this  cynical  thought  did  not  serve  her, 
for,  as  if  he  had  been  warned  of  the  conflict  in  her  soul, 
Cleve  drew  her  to  him  again,  jealously  guarding  this 
miraculous  possession  against  the  possibility  of  withdrawal. 

"Kiss  me,  Rose,"  he  whispered,  and,  without  waiting  for 
her  consent,  kissed  her  again  and  again,  until,  surrendering, 
she  closed  her  ears  to  the  warning  of  the  voices  that  called 
to  her  until  she  willed  them  to  be  silent. 

A  slim  white  hand  slipped  through  the  heavy  curtains. 
Willetta  Porter's  bright  dark  eyes  saw  everything,  but 
her  ingenuous  face  disclosed  nothing  of  this  knowledge 
when  she  joined  them  full  of  pretty  scolding. 

"Rose,  Rose,  why  have  you  forgotten  that  old  Mrs.  Tobin 
is  here  to-night!  And  if  you  wanted  to  slip  off  unseen, 
why  wear  a  red  gown?  Every  one  has  missed  you — even 
your  husband !  I  heard  him  asking  for  you  ten  minutes  ago. 
Come  back  with  me.  Cleve,  you  look  as  though  you  needed 
a  cigarette.  Do  have  one  of  mine,  and  smoke  it  before  you 
follow  us." 

They  were  astonished  to  find  how  long  a  time  had  elapsed 
since  impulse  stranded  them  in  the  little  room.  Rose  looked 
at  her  friend  dreamily.  It  was  as  though  the  night  had 
passed  and  morning  was  smiling  through  the  windows.  She 
looked  at  Cleve  and  smiled.  The  other  woman  had  obtruded 
her  presence  in  the  room,  but  she  could  not  break  the 
current  of  thought  that  flowed  between  them  like  a  turbu 
lent  river. 

Cleve's  hand  shook  as  he  took  the  cigarette  Willetta 
offered.  He  did  this  subconsciously  for  the  idea  of  smoking 
a  woman's  cigarette  would  have  seemed  ridiculous  to  him, 
and  after  the  tiny  thing  was  in  his  hand  he  stared  at  it 
stupidly,  finally  crumbling  it  in  his  fingers.  He  hardly  knew 
when  the  two  women  left  the  room — Willetta  nervously 


THE  THRESHOLD  113 

alert,  small  and  dominant,  with  her  arm  drawn  lightly 
through  Rose's.  And  Rose  herself,  drooping  slightly  in  the 
flame  colored  gown,  with  something  fragile  and  young  sud 
denly  come  to  life  about  her,  as  though  beneath  the  material 
aspect  of  her  beauty,  her  spirit  was  pleading  dumbly  for 
help. 

But  this  inertia  left  him  as  they  vanished  and  he  thought 
impatiently  of  Willetta  and  her  interference.  He  wanted 
Rose  again  and  in  his  triumphant  elation  would  have  called 
to  her  to  return  had  that  been  possible.  Her  weakness 
made  no  appeal  to  him.  He  was  not  sorry  for  her.  She 
was  his. 

There  was  another  exit  to  the  little  room  and  he  wandered 
vaguely  through  this,  rinding  himself  after  awhile  in  a 
place  which  represented  a  Middle  West  architect's  concep 
tion  of  a  Dutch  taproom.  It  was  fairly  well  done,  only 
the  men  sitting  around  the  bare  oak  trenchers  were  drinking 
anything  but  beer,  and  the  delicate  smoke  that  veiled  the 
ceiling  was  not  from  honest  pipes. 

Cleve's  eyes,  obsessed  by  the  image  of  Rose,  sought  and 
found  Laurence  Dupagny,  the  center  of  a  little  group  of 
bored  listeners  to  whom  he  was  explaining  his  latest  plan 
for  re-creating  Cresston.  In  spite  of  himself  the  younger 
man,  himself  unnoticed,  drew  nearer  to  the  group.  There 
was  an  inward  urge  to  hear  the  speaker's  voice,  to  watch 
his  face.  Dupagny  had  become  suddenly  imbued  with  tre 
mendous  importance,  a  tantalizing  mystery.  This  middle- 
aged,  harassed  man,  with  tired  eyes  and  eager,  persuasive 
voice,  was  an  important  factor  in  what  was  to  come.  Rose 
belonged  to  him.  In  some  way  he  had  won  her.  There 
was  no  explanation  of  how  this  miracle  had  come  about 
but  it  was  true.  Cleve  stood  so  closely  at  Dupagny's  elbow 
that  he  could  have  touched  him  and  he  waited  there,  com- 


114  THE  THRESHOLD 

pelled  by  this  secret  speculation  that  increased  enormously 
his  own  self-esteem. 

He  was  not  jealous  of  Dupagny.  Whatever  the  legerde 
main  may  have  been  which  made  Rose  this  man's  wife, 
love  had  played  no  part  in  it — he  was  sure  of  that.  His 
instincts  plumbed  to  the  heart  of  this  union  and  surveyed 
unmolested  the  tie  that  bound  the  two,  and  Dupagny,  the 
husband,  became  a  negligible  quantity  with  the  certainty 
that  Rose  had  never  loved  him. 

Dupagny's  tone  was  slightly  thickened.  "I  tell  you, 
frensh,  Creshton  is  in  b'ginning  of  great  building  era,  an' 
thish  is  th'  time  t'get  in — in — "  He  had  been  drinking. 

Qeve  experienced  a  sensation  of  disgust.  He  had  a 
fastidious  distaste  for  the  effects  of  liquor  and  to  his  view 
point  such  indulgence  meant  moral  suicide.  One  of  the 
elements  of  his  popularity  with  women  was  his  freedom 
from  the  weakness  which  so  often  betrays  the  cloven  hoof. 
No  one  had  ever  seen  him  take  more  than  a  polite  cock 
tail  and  in  this  abstinence  he  preserved  his  personal  mystery 
and  with  it  the  interest  of  his  friends.  He  had  a  tolerant 
contempt  for  such  weakness  in  other  men,  but  to  see  Lau 
rence  Dupagny  in  this  condition  affected  him  almost  as  a 
personal  affront.  He  beheld  a  swift  vision  of  Rose  alone 
with  this  disgusting  brute,  trying  to  pacify  him,  persuading 
him  to  be  silent,  to  sleep.  "The  fool !"  he  said,  behind  his 
lips. 

Then  he  was  attracted  by  a  laugh.  Peter  Withrow  was 
at  the  table  and  it  was  to  him  that  the  promoter  had  been 
speaking.  Peter  was  drinking,  too;  had  been  drinking  all 
through  the  evening,  as  was  evidenced  by  the  glitter  in  his 
eyes  and  the  sardonic  laughter  that  always  left  his  hearers 
with  a  faint  chill.  When  he  saw  Cleve  standing  beside 


THE  THRESHOLD  115 

Dupagny  with  the  sneer  on  his  mouth  the  sight  seemed  to 
give  him  a  peculiar  satisfaction. 

"Will  you  join  us?"  he  invited,  reading  the  other's 
thoughts  with  uncanny  prescience,  pressing  his  guard  with 
rapier  like  raillery.  "Have  you  heard  our  friend  Dupagny 
describe  the  advantages  of  the  sites  he  has  for  sale.  .  .  . 
And  these  may  be  yours  if  you  have  the  price.  Or  if  you 
are  clever  enough  to  get  what  you  want  without  paying!" 

Cleve  saw  that  Peter  wished  to  insult  him.  In  the  mixed 
state  of  his  emotions  there  was  no  place  for  conflict  with 
this  outsider.  When  Peter  was  in  his  cups  he  always 
showed  a  peculiar  bitterness  toward  those  who  were  free 
from  his  own  failing  and  Cleve  generously  waived  resent 
ment  whenever  he  was  chosen  as  the  mark  for  the  other's 
rudeness.  But  to-night,  because  he  had  been  shaken  from 
his  usual  phlegmatic  calm,  the  slurring  words  affected  him 
with  a  surprising  up  flame  of  anger.  He  would  not  trust 
himself  to  reply  and  was  turning  a\vay  when  he  was 
arrested  by  an  unexpected  protest  from  Dupagny.  The 
promoter,  taking  swift  offense  at  what  he  chose  to  apply 
to  himself,  got  on  his  feet  with  some  difficulty  and  thrust 
his  haggard  face  toward  Peter  Withrow  in  a  pitiful  attempt 
at  dignity. 

"You  mean  something  by  that !"  he  stammered.  "What 
d'ye  mean  by  'not  paying'  ?" 

There  was  going  to  be  a  quarrel — a  drunken  brawl. 
Friends  would  interfere ;  the  steward  might  be  called.  It 
was  all  repulsive — unnecessary. 

Cleve  continued  on  his  way  to  the  ball  room  followed  by 
the  medley  of  voices  from  the  taproom  which  explained  the 
unexplainable.  The  trivial  scene  just  witnessed  was  like  a 
complete  reassurance  to  any  doubt  he  might  have  had  of 


116  THE  THRESHOLD 

his  own  future.  The  men  in  the  group  he  left  were  repre 
sentative  men  of  Cresston — all  were  successful,  all  had 
made  money  in  one  way  or  another;  they  had  flourishing 
businesses  and  held  responsible  positions,  yet  they  lent 
their  bodies  and  brains  to  such  practices  as  this.  He  felt 
immeasurably  superior  to  each  of  them.  He  had  come 
away  cool  of  head  and  master  of  himself  while  they  brawled 
among  themselves,  ridiculous  in  their  mock  heroics.  With 
this  strength  latent  and  controlled  within  him,  what  might 
he  not  accomplish?  He  recognized  his  own  egotism  but 
as  friend  and  ally.  He  saw  nothing  in  its  swift  growth 
that  was  not  commendable. 

There  had  been  more  than  enough  time  to  smoke  Will- 
etta's  minute  cigarette,  and  when  he  reached  the  ball  room 
he  saw  Rose  one-stepping  in  some  man's  arms,  her  eyes 
restlessly  seeking  him  through  the  crowd  as  his  had 
searched  for  her  in  the  beginning  of  the  evening.  "She 
loves  me !"  he  thought  exultantly  and  forgot  the  impending 
quarrel  in  the  taproom. 

It  was  difficult  to  get  a  dance  with  her.  The  secret  flame 
of  her  soul  seemed  to  draw  men  to  her  like  moths  to  a 
candle.  She  had  always  been  too  discreet  to  allow  herself 
too  great  popularity,  but  to-night  she  was  too  languid  and 
too  happy  to  prevent  men  from  crowding  about  her. 

When  Cleve  had  a  moment  he  whispered,  "You  must  not 
let  other  men  make  love  to  you.  I  can't  stand  it." 

Rose  laughed  happily.  She  wanted  to  explain  that  the 
flattery  of  other  lips  and  the  touch  of  other  arms  about 
her  meant  nothing.  These  people  were  merely  in  the  back 
ground  of  her  happiness,  like  chairs  and  tables  furnishing 
a  room.  There  were  so  many  things  she  wanted  to  say  to 
him,  but  there  never  seemed  to  be  an  opportunity.  The 
others,  crowding  close,  kept  them  apart  yet  left  their  spirits 


THE  THRESHOLD  117 

free  to  mingle  in  contactless  voids,  unsatisfying,  filled  with 
wistfulness. 

Ethel  Plumey,  draped  in  a  home-made  evening  coat, 
touched  Rose's  bare  arm. 

"Mamma  wants  to  know  if  you  will  come  home  with  us. 
We  have  the  carriage,  you  know.  Mamma  is  always  glad 
in  weather  like  this  that  we  have  the  carriage  instead  of  a 
car.  It's  so  much  safer." 

"Why — why — "  Rose  came  a  little  way  from  her  abstrac 
tion,  glancing  around  the  fast  emptying  room.  "Why — " 
She  returned  to  Miss  Plumey's  kindly  offer.  "We  came 
with  Willetta, — Mrs.  Porter.  Laurence  will  expect  to  re 
turn  with  her." 

"Willetta  left  twenty  minutes  ago,"  Ethel  informed  her 
with  a  giggle,  enjoying  the  consternation  she  created.  "She 
took  the  Tysons  in  her  car.  Mrs.  Tyson  left  her  own  ma 
chine  in  the  Club  garage.  She  didn't  want  the  mud,  she 
said,  for  it  takes  her  man  a  half  day  to  clean  it.  Willetta 
asked  me  to  offer  you  a  place." 

The  lifting  of  an  eyebrow!  Rose  had  seen  it  a  hundred 
times.  Her  swift  instinct,  leaping  from  the  languor  of  her 
own  smothering,  self -centered  thoughts,  sensed  danger. 
Willetta  had  seen  them  together  in  the  little  room.  What 
had  she  thought  or  suspected?  The  friend  who  had  con 
fided  in  her  a  hundred  petty  indiscretions  was  about  to  turn 
her  own  face  away  at  the  hint  of  an  indiscretion  in  Rose. 

But  the  next  moment  she  rejected  this  faint  panic  as  ab 
surd  and  childish.  Willetta  meant  nothing  of  the  sort.  She 
was  a  notorious  little  favor  seeker  and  the  Tysons  were 
powerful  and  important.  To  place  them  under  the  obliga 
tion  of  saving  the  polish  on  their  car  at  the  expense  of 
her  own  was  like  Willetta.  She  never  missed  a  small  ad 
vantage  like  that,  and  to-morrow  she  would  come  running 


118  THE  THRESHOLD 

in,  cleverly  mimicking  selfish  old  Mrs.  Tyson,  and  retailing 
all  the  gossip  that  had  been  garnered  during  the  ride.  Rose 
smiled  cynically,  reflecting  that  the  part  that  concerned  her 
self  would  be  the  only  part  kept  back.  She  would  be  sure 
to  occupy  a  portion  of  their  conversation,  but  they  would  be 
careful  not  to  let  her  know. 

She  rejected  the  Plumey  offer  with  a  careless  laugh.  She 
knew  how  much  her  slight  humiliation  was  enjoyed  and 
she  was  in  no  mind  to  shut  herself  and  her  high  happiness 
into  the  close  atmosphere  of  the  antediluvian  coupe  with 
Mrs.  Plumey  and  Ethel. 

"Thank  your  mother  for  me,  but  it  would  be  too  much,  I 
am  afraid,"  she  said  sweetly.  "Laurence  will  manage  some 
thing,  surely." 

Miss  Plumey  sent  a  malevolent  glance  toward  the  taproom 
door  and  Rose  might  have  grasped  the  meaning  of  this  if  her 
mind  had  been  following  the  small  signs  that  were  every 
where.  "You  will  see,"  predicted  her  friend.  "You  had 
better  come  with  us." 

She  was  right.  The  room  thinned  perceptibly.  People 
were  going;  rushing  about  hunting  for  mackintoshes,  be 
wailing  the  state  of  the  roads,  abusing  the  weather.  They 
forgot  how  happy  they  had  been  an  hour  ago. 

The  sky,  black  and  fathomless,  poured  unceasingly. 
Doubting  chauffeurs  reluctantly  brought  machines  to  the 
door  and  people  who  had  no  chauffeurs  prepared  to  drive 
themselves,  expecting  to  land  in  a  ditch  at  every  turn.  The 
Plumeys  departed  comfortably  in  their  old-fashioned  coupe 
and  the  lights,  shining  on  the  glistening  rumps  of  the  horses, 
helped  them  to  a  sense  of  security.  Only  a  few  were  left 
in  the  ballroom.  A  waiter  hovered  near  the  door,  longing 
to  turn  off  the  lights  and  end  it  all. 

"What  can  be  keeping  Lorry?"  said  Rose  nervously  to 


THE  THRESHOLD  119 

Cleve  who  was  beside  her.  For  the  moment  she  was  back 
in  her  shell  of  convention.  It  became  intensely  important 
that  she  should  leave' the  Club  as  other  women  left  it — under 
her  husband's  protection. 

She  was  answered.  Laurence  Dupagny,  flanked  by  two 
dissuasive  friends,  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  Dutch 
room.  Over  their  shoulders  could  be  seen  other  faces, 
amused,  disgusted,  apprehensive,  malicious.  A  waiter, 
chalky  white,  with  his  napkin  over  his  arm,  fluttered  weakly 
beyond  them  all.  Rose  watched  stonily.  She  knew  at  once 
that  this  meant  humiliation  for  her,  if  not  worse. 

"Don't  speak  to  him,"  whispered  Cleve,  struck  by  the 
probability  of  imminent  distress  for  her,  "let  me  take  you 
away." 

"No,  no,"  she  answered  mechanically,  "I  am  not  afraid. 
He  will  injure  himself,  not  me."  She  was  thinking  of 
Dupagny's  plans  on  which  so  much  depended.  He  would 
ruin  everything  by  this  exhibition. 

Dupagny  stood  looking  around  the  room,  which  was  now 
empty  except  for  the  groups  of  which  Rose  and  himself 
were  the  centers.  He  was  changed  unbelievably  by  his  de 
plorable  condition.  His  meticulous  neatness  was  gone  and 
with  it  the  careful  guard  habit  kept  upon  his  features.  His 
underlip  hung  heavily  and  pendulous ;  his  eyes,  blood-shot, 
roved  unceasingly.  He  displayed  the  futile  anger  of  a 
thwarted  man.  His  wandering  gaze  at  last  encountered 
Rose  in  her  flame  colored  gown  and  his  face  lighted  into  a 
dull  glow. 

"Ah,  there  she  is,"  he  stammered.  "My  wife.  Lemme 
intr'duce  m'wife.  Mos'  beautifu'  woman,  but  cold, — dam' 
cold—" 

Some  one  dragged  him  away.  There  was  a  sort  of  sub 
dued  scuffle, — a  tangle  of  black  clad  shoulders  and  Peter 


120  THE  THRESHOLD 

appeared  where  Dupagny  had  been.  His  tie  was  awry  and 
a  lock  of  hair  fell  over  his  forehead,  but  he  spoke  evenly 
enough. 

"Excuse — "  he  said  to  Rose.  "He  didn't  mean  to  say 
that." 

"Take  me  away,"  she  cried  to  Cleve,  in  a  stifled  tone.  He 
seemed  to  be  her  only  friend.  "Let  me  go  now — now — " 

In  the  car  she  leaned  against  him  in  the  thick  wet  dark 
ness.  Her  body,  sweet  and  supple  through  all  its  soft  wrap 
ping,  was  warm  as  though  the  flame  colored  dress  was  a 
thing  of  fire. 

They  were  shut  away  by  the  curtains  and  the  swift  move 
ment  from  a  world  that  no  longer  concerned  them.  Through 
the  streaming  windshield  the  befogged  lamps  picked  out  a 
wavering  path  along  the  slipping  road. 

They  did  not  talk.  There  was  so  much  to  say  between 
them  that  they  said  nothing  at  all.  They  could  not  trust 
themselves  to  speak  in  this  strange  intimate  isolation. 

But  at  last  they  came  into  the  town.  Rose  leaned  weakly 
against  him.  Soon  they  must  part. 

The  wheels  rolled  upon  asphalt.  Two  dull,  submerged 
lights,  like  sentinels,  leaped  suddenly  from  the  darkness,  con 
fronting  them,  as  they  stopped.  Rose,  leaning  forward  to 
peer  through  the  obscured  window,  exclaimed  in  confusion : 

"This  is  not  my  house!" 

She  recognized  the  lamps  which  were  posted  on  either 
side  of  a  wide  doorway.  "Why — "  she  stammered  and 
sunk  back  in  her  place,  trembling.  The  car  was  standing 
before  the  Sheridan  Building. 

His  arm  trembled  with  her  as  he  put  it  around  her 
shoulders.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  emotion.  He  had 
the  sensation  of  one  who  looks  too  long  and  too  closely  at 
the  sun.  He  was  dazzled,  bewildered. 


THE  THRESHOLD  121 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  ecstasy  the  secret  force  within 
which  had  so  often  thwarted  him  in  moments  of  abandon 
ment,  asserted  itself  and  sent  his  thoughts  racing  far 
afield.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  lose  himself  completely 
to  any  one  emotion.  Burning  with  passion  for  Rose,  his 
mind  turned  in  disdain  from  this  magnificent  adventure, 
searched  for  and  found  Antonia,  pure  and  aloof,  sleeping 
not  far  away  upon  a  narrow  bed,  under  a  stranger's  roof. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THAT  which  is  so  devastating  to  oneself  may  be  infini 
tesimal  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

This  simple  truth  if  applied  to  their  own  domestic 
cataclysm  would  have  been  an  immense  solace  to  the  Christys 
if  put  in  practice  when  their  daughter  left  home  to  begin  a 
life  of  her  own,  guided  by  her  own  hopes  and  plans. 

Unlike  the  ostrich  they  believed  themselves  to  be  the 
center  of  a  storm  of  censure,  pity  and  speculation.  Because 
they  had.  lived  in  Cresston  longer  than  other  people,  they 
cherished  the  illusion  that  the  eyes  of  their  little  world  were 
faste'ned  upon  them. 

But  this  was  not  so.  Their  poverty  obscured  them.  The 
thing  they  thought  their  misfo.rtune  was.  really  a  cloak  to 
shield  them  if  they  had  only  seen  it  in  that  light.  To  the 
avid  town,  intent  upon  its  own  concerns,  money-getting, 
gossiping,  straining  to  keep  up  appearances, — the  matter  of 
Antonia  Christy  was  of  no  importance.  The  to'wn  had 
looked  upon  more  poignant  tragedies  unmoved.  To  claim 
its  attention  Antonia  would  have  to  emerge  from  the  gentle 
shell  in  which  her  real  self  was  hidden  and  shock  and  startle. 
In  her  present  disguise  she  was  merely  a  shabby  girl  who 
had  joined  the  ranks  of  the  home-goers  at  five  o'clock  every 
afternoon.  She  would  have  to  do  more  than  that  to  make 
herself  and  her  family  notorious.  That  she  had  set  up  her 
dwn  gods  apart  from  her  father  meant  nothing  at  all. 

Just  as  the  sorry  jest  that  elected  Roscoe  Christy  to  his 

122 


THE  THRESHOLD  123 

petty  office  was  forgotten,  as  soon  as  accomplished,  so  was 
Antonia's  flutter  toward  the  blue  sky  of  freedom  unseen. 

No  one  realized  this  sooner  than  Antonia  herself.  In  an 
astonishingly  short  time  the  novelty  of  her  new  life  and  its 
duties  disappeared ;  it  became  habitual,  then  commonplace. 
Swiftly  the  twenty  years  of  her  past  receded  and  the  dull 
and  petty  routine  of  the  present  succeeded  the  dull  and  petty 
routine  which  had  come  before.  In  her  new  occupation  she 
found  none  of  the  brilliant  excitement  she  had  predicted 
for  herself,  but  in  spite  of  this  she  was  not  flagrantly  dis 
appointed.  Her  existence  was  like  waking  from  an 
opalescent  dream  to  find  that  life  had  not  changed  materially, 
if  it  had  in  the  abstract. 

One  of  her  early  realizations  caused  her  to  blush  shame 
facedly  when  she  recalled  her  somewhat  heroic  threat  to 
find  another  position  if  Peter  Withrow  refused  her  a  chance 
in  his  office.  Within  a  week  she  knew  that  this  would  have 
been  no  easy  matter.  And  Peter  knew  it,  too.  Cleve  had 
been  quite  right  when  he  said  that  they  could  have  had  a 
trained  secretary  in  place  of  Antonia.  She  worked  care 
fully  but  she  had  none  of  the  meretricious  smartness  of  the 
young  persons  schooled  en  masse  to  carry  on  the  routine  of 
an  office.  She  was  learning  to  use  the  typewriter,  but,  as 
Cleve  pointed  out  to  his  partner,  why  should  their  office 
serve  as  preparatory  school?  Cleve  had  no  sympathy  for 
beginners,  though  he  should  have  had  much.  He  wanted 
his  machinery  to  run  smoothly  in  oiled  perfection.  He 
could  have  reproved  a  stranger  for  technical  errors  in  a  calm, 
cold  voice  but  he  could  not  reprove  Antonia. 

She  offered  to  resign  on  the  third  day  when  she  com 
mitted  a  glaring  error  which  would  take  hours  of  careful 
work  to  eradicate.  "I  am  only  in  the  way,"  she  said  to 
Peter,  with  tears  of  mortification  just  beyond  her  dark  eyes. 


124  THE  THRESHOLD 

But  Peter  poohpoohed  such  a  radical  measure  of  correc 
tion.  He  pointed  out  the  trite  but  comforting  truism  that 
"everybody  makes  mistakes  sometimes."  Antonia  made 
them  but  they  could  be  mended,  and,  after  all,  he  reminded 
her,  copying  papers  was  not  the  real  reason  of  her  service 
with  him.  There  was  a  deeper  purpose  than  that.  It  reas 
sured  them  both  to  remember  that  all  clever  lawyers  wrote 
remarkably  bad  letters!  In  the  end  Antonia's  mistakes 
seemed  to  augur  some  future  triumph  of  which  the  present 
awkwardness  in  immaterial  trifles  was  but  the  forerunner. 

Antonia  told  herself  that  she  was  happy  and  believed  it. 
She  had  the  things  she  had  wanted  since  she  was  a  little 
girl :  time  and  solitude  for  reading  and  study ;  the  smell  of 
leather  bound  books;  an  environment  of  grave  essentials 
that  helped  the  blossoming  of  her  mind. 

But  she  was  not  happy.  She  knew  this  when  she  re 
turned  in  the  evening  to  Mrs.  Miller's  boarding-house  on 
Thelma  Avenue  which  had  become  her  home.  When  she 
entered  the  chill  neatness  of  her  third  floor  room,  furnished 
in  light  pine  and  white  painted  iron,  where  the  chairs  were 
always  replaced  at  a  certain  angle  and  two  red-bordered 
towels  fresh  from  the  mangle  confronted  her  from  the  rack 
above  the  washstand,  this  vague  unhappiness  crept  into  her 
heart  and  settled  there. 

One  evening  she  found  her  mother  waiting  for  her  when 
she  entered  her  room. 

"I  just  had  to  come,  Antonia/'  said  Mrs.  Christy 
tremulously.  She  was  rocking  back  and  forth  in  a  monoto 
nous,  measured  motion  which  continued  after  the  greeting 
that  passed  between  them,  and  she  did  not  remove  her  hat, 
a  dull  brown  straw,  which  gave  to  her  visit  a  casual  air. 
Mrs.  Christy  was  not  a  stranger  at  Mrs.  Miller's  house,  but 
not  once  during  Antonia's  stay 'had  she  abandoned  her  air  of 


THE  THRESHOLD  125 

transiency.  Her  manner  said  plainly  that  in  her  opinion 
there  -was  no  permanence  to  the  arrangement,  and  while  she 
retained  her  garments  of  formality  it  could  not  be  sup 
posed  that  she  countenanced  if  in  any  way. 

Antonia  met  her  mother  with  sweet  tranquillity.  She 
was  prepared  for  reproaches  arrd  all  the  old  arguments,  for 
Mrs.  Christy  never' failed  to  voice  plaintively  her  distress  at 
her  daughter's  unprecedented  desertion,  and  this  visit  was 
in  no  way  different  from  others.  When  the  girl  had  put 
her  hat  and  little  purse  aside  and  the  two  were  seated  op 
posite  one  another,  the  plea  with  which  she  was  becoming 
increasingly  familiar  began. 

"Why  are  you  so  hard,  child?  I'm  sure  I  never  dreamed 
when  you  were  a  little  thing,  so  solemn  and  good,  that  you 
would  grow  up  so  unlike  other  girls.  It  doesn't  seem  right, 
somehow,  that  I  should  have  a  daughter  so  different.  I 
had  a  letter  from  your  Aunt  Eugenia  to-day.  They've 
heard  about  this  in  Plainville  already.  She  was  very  sym 
pathetic,  but  she  took  pains  to  tell  me  all  about  your  cousin 
May's  wedding  and  her  clothes  and  everything.  She  put 
stress  on  what  a  comfort  May  had  been.  She's  marrying 
the  doctor.  There  always  was  a  doctor  in  the  Saltwell 
family  and  May  being  married  to  one  gives  her  a  sort  of 
importance.  Eugenia  seemed  to  be  very  proud !" 

Mrs.  Christy  paused  to  touch  her  reddened  eyelids  with  a 
frail  little  handkerchief.  "Pity  me,"  she  seemed  to  add  in 
an  aside,  "my  daughter  has  failed.  She  has  brought  no 
honor  to  her  family  by  marriage  or  otherwise." 

Antonia  understood  this.  "I  am  sorry,  mother,"  she  said 
gently  and  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  to  other  channels. 
"How  is  Bonnie,"  she  asked,  "and— father  ?" 

But  this  led  to  deeper  waters.  Mrs.  Christy's  depression 
increased.  "Donnie  is  unchanged,"  she  said,  as  though 


126  THE  THRESHOLD 

years  instead  of  weeks  had  passed.  "But  your  father — 
Antonia,  I  have  no  wish  to  distress  you,  but  I  cannot  help 
but  feel  that  you  have  hurt  your  father  perhaps  more  than 
— other  disappointments  in  the  past.  He  does  not  say  any 
thing — really,  he  talks  less  than  ever ;  sometimes  I  am  fairly 
driven  wild  for  the  need  of  some  one  to  speak  to.  The 
house  is  like  a  tomb.  He  murmurs  things  to  himself  and 
when  I  ask  him  to  repeat  what  he  is  saying,  he  simply  stares 
at  me  as  though  I  had  not  spoken.  It  is  very  trying, 
really  it  is,  my  dear." 

She  began  to  weep  again,  very  gently  and  delicately  into 
her  pocket  handkerchief,  and  Antonia  wished  that  she  could 
weep  a  little  for  company,  but  she.  did  not  possess  her 
mother's  facile  tears. 

"Poor  mother,"  she  said  tenderly,  but  without  admitting 
that  she  was  in  any  way  to  blame.  To  herself  she  was  say 
ing  wearily.  "Am  I  never  to  hear  the  end  of  this?  Why 
won't  they  understand  and  stop  worrying  over  me?  I  am 
no  longer  a  child  to  come  and  go  as  I  am  told."  She  dared 
not  voice  this  protest  but  she  added  aloud  in  an  absent  tone, 
"It  is  very  hard  on  you,  poor  mother." 

Mrs.  Christy  brightened  visibly  at  the  first  compassionate 
word. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  she  said  briskly,  putting  the  handkerchief 
resolutely  away  and  patting  her  hair,  "you  must  not  say  that, 
child.  I  am  quite  accustomed  to  your  father's  little  ways. 
I  should  not  like  him  to  be  loquacious,  really,  I  shouldn't. 
It  is  only  that  we  both  miss  you — "  she  went  on  wistfully. 
"In  different  ways — we  miss  you." 

Antonia  was  not  so  far  from  tears  as  she  had  believed 
herself.  Her  mother's  swift  reactions  under  the  stimulus  of 
sympathy  always  affected  her  as  peculiarly  pathetic,  but  she 
resented  this  emotion  and  refused  to  yield  to  it.  She  dreaded 


THE  THRESHOLD  127 

the  effect  of  these  typically  feminine  emotions  upon  her 
resolutions.  "Let  us  speak  of  something  else,"  she  said,  al 
most  harshly. 

Mrs.  Christy  knew  that  she  had  displeased  her  daughter 
and  responded  with  a  desperate  effort  to  be  casual. 

"And  how  are  you  getting  on?  Is  Peter  Withrow  kind 
and  considerate?  I  am  sure  he  would  be,  for  if  ever  there 
was  a  gentleman  born  it  is  his  father.  I  hope — I  pray  that 
he  has  remembered  that,  and  that  you  are  a  lady,  as  well, 
even  though  you  are  employed  there.  I  refer  to  his — er 
habits.  If  he  should  appear  before  you  when  he  is  having 
one  of  those  dreadful  relapses  into  drink, — what  would  be 
come  of  you,  my  child  ?" 

Antonia  regarded  her  mother  contemplatively.  She  was 
always  marveling  at  the  determined  attitude  which  Mrs. 
Christy  took  toward  her  youth.  Because  of  it  she  must  be 
protected  from  knowledge  and  experience ;  kept  in  ignorance, 
shielded  from  all  that  was-  ugly  and  broadening.  She  had 
never  seen  Peter  in  the  sorry  state  referred  to  as  a  "relapse*" 
but  she  had  seen  others  and  she  knew  what  it  must  be  like. 
She  felt  only  pity  for  such  unfortunates  and  she  tried  to 
make  her  mother  understand. 

"If  Peter  were  very  ill,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "you 
would  hurry  to  him.  If  he  took  poison, — had  a  dreadful  ac 
cident — it  would  be  the  same.  You  would  even  allow  me  to 
go  to  him.  Why,  then,  should  I  be  afraid  and  avoid  him 
under  other  conditions  when  he.  is  equally  to  be  pitied  and 
cared  for?"  But  she  saw  at  once  the  hopelessness  of  argu 
ment  and  became  silent. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  said  Mrs.  Christy  in  a  heartfelt  tone, 
"that  in  a  little  while  there  will  be  no  more  of  the  vile  stuff, 
— but — ""  she  added  with  gloomy  afterthought,  "doubtless 
he  will  only  have  to  go  to  his  own  bar  instead  of  another's. 


128  THE  THRESHOLD 

Unfortunately,  he  has  the  money  to  buy  anything.  You 
can't  think  what  a  relief  it  is  to  me  to  know  that  Cleve 
Harkness  is  in  the  same  office.  Your  father  dislikes  him — 
almost  without  reason,  I  should  say — but  it  is  well  known 
that  he  has  no  bad  habits.  He  is  to  be  commended  for  that, 
as  well  as  for  his  studious  career.  What  a  pity  his  father 
is  such-  an  old  rogue  .  .  .  some  one  was  telling  me  that  he 
stole — actually  stole,  the  furniture  from  a  war  widow's 
house, — that  is,  he  gave  her  only  half  of  what  it  would  have 
been  if  there  had  been,  no  war  and  everything  doubled  in 
price.  Every  one  says  that  young  Cleve  will  go  far.  To 
know  that  he  is  there,  prepared  to  stand  between  you  and 
anything  disagreeable,  is  something,  at  least." 

Far  below,  in  the  cavernous  front  hall,  a  harsh  toned 
bell  rang  distantly.  Simultaneously  through  the  house, 
doors  opened  and  shut  hurriedly;  feet  descended  the  stairs. 
There  was  a  faint  odor,  indescribable  but  distinct,  which 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the  atmosphere.  It  was  the  impor 
tant  hour  of  the  day  and  the  boarding-house,  which,  an 
hour  before,  had  been  a  place  of  weariness  and  solitary 
returning,  took  on  an  air  of  gay  comradeship,  even  of 
fashion.  Through  the  open  transom,  voices  could  be  heard 
greeting  other  voices  pleasantly,  as  though  the  day  which  ap 
proached  its  end  was  just  beginning. 

Antonia  stood  up,  touching  her  hair  lightly  with  her 
fingertips.  Lateness  to  meals  was  a  fault  not  readily  over 
looked  in  Mrs.  Miller's  house. 

"Will  you — will  you — stay  to  dinner,  mother  ?"  she  asked 
entreatingly,  but  Mrs.  Christy,  also  galvanized  by  the  sum 
mons,  was  preparing  hastily  for  departure. 

"Thank  you,  Antonia,  but  that  is  impossible,  as  you 
know,"  she  returned  icily.  In  some  obscure  way  the  invita 
tion  offended  and  humiliated  her.  She  could  visualize 


THE  THRESHOLD  129 

nothing  less  possible  than  herself  as  an  invited  guest  in  Mrs. 
Miller's  basement  dining-room.  "Thank  you,"  she  said 
again,  as  though  speaking  to  a  stranger.  "I  must  be  going 
now.  The  time  has  slipped  by — " 

At  the  door  she  forgot  this  momentary  pose  or  it  eluded 
her.  She  put  her  arm  around  Antonia's  shoulder  and  kissed 
the  soft  petaled  cheek  with  a  sort  of  timid  fierceness.  Once 
that  cheek  had  been  never  far  from  her  lips,  but  now  in  a 
little  while  it  had  grown  strange — almost  remote.  Her  love 
reached  out  to  reclaim  it. 

"You  are  so  hard!"  she  cried  again.  "But  it  is  only  be 
cause  you  do  not  know !  Young  people  are  always  hard — 
I  tell  him  that  when  he  will  listen.  But  when  you  are  old 
and  after  you  have  suffered  things,  you  forgive  more  easily, 
and  you  can  forget.  He  wants  to  forgive  you,  if  you  will 
come  back." 

"Forgive  me!"  repeated  Antonia.  Though  she  returned 
the  caress  warmly  she  stood  apart  when  it  was  over — 
" — For  what?  What  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  for 
given  ?'  Her  t.one  was  cold  with.-  offense. 

In  the  hall  downstairs  they  encountered  Mrs.  Miller  in 
beaded  crepe  de  chine  and  smiling  affably,  though  with  a 
hard  stratum  beneath  her  gracious  manner.  It  was  Satur 
day  night  and  the  landlady  was  collecting  the  weekly  tribute 
from  her  guests.  She  advertised  the  fact  that  while  she 
had  their  interests  at  heart,  the  house  was  a  matter  of  busi 
ness. 

At  sight  of  her  Mrs.  Christy's  bonnet  seemed  to  grow 
more  firmly  on  her  head  and  her  body  stiffened.  She  had 
once  known  Mrs.  Miller  very  well  indeed,  but  now  an  in 
definable  barrier  suddenly  established  itself  between  the  two 
ladies.  This  was  encouraged  to  grow  to  startling  dimen 
sions  by  the  landlady's  cordiality  which  carried  its  own  sting. 


130  THE  THRESHOLD 

"So  you  have  been  visiting  our  dear  girl  again,"  she  ex 
claimed  vivaciously  as  she  accepted  the  slim  offering  that 
Antonia  put  in  her  hand.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  procession 
of  tribute  givers  and  she  took  the  opportunity  to  prove  to 
Mrs.  Christy's  doubting  face  that  young  persons  bereft  of 
their  own  homes  lost  nothing  in  coming  to  hers.  She 
slipped  an  affectionate  arm  around  Antonia's  waist. 

"This  dear  one  is  growing  to  be  my  very  own,"  she  smiled. 
"I  want  her  to  call  me  Aunt  Mollie,  as  the  others  do,  but 
she  is  too  shy.  And  sometimes  I  am  glad,  for  I  don't  want 
her  to  be  quite  like  them.  I  am  her  borrowed  mother,  you 
see,  and  'Aunt  Mollie/  though  it  is  a  dear  name,  would  not 
quite  do." 

Mrs.  Christy's  vague  animosity  solidified  at  a  word  into 
a  definite  sensation.  Antonia's  "borrowed  mother,"  indeed ! 
She  was  jealous  with  the  swift  passion  and  unreasoning 
prejudice  of  a  mother  whose  child  is  claimed  by  a  stranger. 
Her  lips  tightened  and  two  high  spots  of  color  sprang  out 
upon  her  cheek  bones. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said  to  Antonia,  who  had  seen 
nothing  of  this  and  was  in  ignorance  of  her  mother's  resent 
ment  as  she  was  of  Mrs.  Miller's  triumphant  look.  "You 
must  go  to  your  dinner  now."  She  fumbled  in  her  large 
moire  handbag  and  produced  finally  a  small  parcel,  wrapped 
in  stiff  white  paper.  "Here  is  some  jelly,  child,"  she  said, 
giving  the  package  to  Antonia  and  disregarding  Mrs.  Miller's 
indignant  stare.  "I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  eating  store 
sweets.  You  will  appreciate  it,"  she  added  in  an  aside,  "it 
is  from  the  yellow  plums." 

"Dinner  is  being  served,  Miss  Christy,"  said  Mrs.  Miller 
sharply.  "The  butler  hates  to  go  back  to  the  first  when 
he's  on  the  third.  If  you  wouldn't  mind  stepping  down 
now — " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BEFORE  Antonia  uprooted  her  little  life  and  trans 
planted  it  to  the  soil  where  she  believed  it  would  thrive 
better,  she  had  endeavored  with  all  the  earnestness  of  twenty 
to  banish  from  her  mind  every  thought  and  memory  of 
Cleve  Harkness  except  in  the  negligible  position  he  would 
occupy  in  her  future.  To  her  pristine  clarity  of  purpose  it 
would  have  been  intolerable  to  place  herself  by  her  own 
effort  near  him.  She  found  it  easy  to  put  this  resolution 
into  effect,  for  from  the  first  morning  Cleve  himself  assumed 
an  attitude  of  detachment  that  sent  her  pride  to  arms. 

He  resented  her  presence  in  the  office  and  was  at  no  pains 
to  conceal  this  aversion.  With  all  the  new  sophistication 
and  extraordinary  learning  with  which  his  brain  was 
crammed,  there  were  times  when  he  relapsed  into  boyish 
ness,  usually  of  a  sulky  and  selfish  trend,  and  it  was  in  such 
moments  that  he  was  most  attractive  to  women  who  could 
not  see  the  real  meaning  of  his  silence.  They  loved  to  dis 
cover  the  source  of  his  dissatisfaction  and  cure  it  with 
tenderness  and  indulgence. 

He  showed  this  angle  of  his  nature  to  Antonia,  when, 
after  a  week  of  cool  good  mornings,  he  stopped  beside  her 
desk  and  pretended  to  be  interested  in  a  paper  she  was  copy 
ing. 

"You  are  doing  it  all  wrong,"  he  said  in  a  dissatisfied 
tone.  "Why  do  you  try  to  do  this,  Antonia  ?  It's  wretched 
drudgery  and  you  are  unsuited  to  it." 

131 


132  THE  THRESHOLD 

He  glanced  at  her  face,  flawless  against  its  unsympathetic 
background.  He  wanted  to  say  that  she  was  too  pretty 
for  such  prison  fare,  but  he  had  never  spoken  in  that  vein  to 
her.  He  could  not  find  a  beginning. 

Antonia,  who  was  more  direct,  seized  the  opportunity  to 
say  what  was  continually  in  her  mind,  and  which  hurt  her 
with  a  dull,  persistent  pain. 

"You  do  not  want  me  here,"  she  said,  lifting  her  eyes 
from  her  work  with  a  sort  of  defiance  reminiscent  of  child 
hood.  "If  you  could,  you  would  make  Peter  send  me 
away." 

"I  would,"  he  admitted  with  frankness,  and  added,  "he's 
only  keeping  you  on  because  of  my  objection.  He  wants  to 
prove  his  seniority." 

His  reward  was  to  see  a  slow  flush  creep  over  her  neck 
and  into  her  soft  cheeks.  He  exulted ;  he  had  made  her 
angry.  "You  should  take  a  business  course  if  you  are  de 
termined  to  do  work  like  this,"  he  finished,  delighting  in  her 
confusion.  But  he  was  not  really  cruel  and  his  rudeness 
was  the  rudeness  of  childhood  familiarity  not  too  long  past. 
"It's  because  I'm  so  fond  of  you,  Antonia,"  he  said  in  a  dif 
ferent  voice,  "and  I  know  how  this  hurts  your  father.  He 
blames  me  for  some  of  it  though  I've  done  my  best  to  show 
him  it  was  not  my  fault.  When  I  meet  him  in  the  street  he 
refuses  to  recognize  me.  Of  all  the  stubborn  girls !  Don't 
you  see  how  uncomfortable  you  are  making  everybody? 
If  people  knew  you  had  quarreled  with  your  family  be 
cause  you  want  to  make  a  lawyer  out  of  yourself,  when 
there  are  far  too  many  lawyers  already,  it  would  make  an 
ugly  situation  if  it  didn't  make  a  ridiculous  one." 

People!  Antonia  permitted  her  lip  to  curl  a  little.  At 
that  moment  she  felt  only  contempt  in  place  of  her  old 
tenderness  for  him.  He  was  influenced  by  the  point  of  view 


THE  THRESHOLD  133 

of  others,  not  a  real  interest  in  herself  and  her  welfare. 
For  a  second  she  had  the  inner  vision  that  saw  him  stripped 
of  charm  and  without  the  misleading  harmonies  of  voice 
and  smile  that  made  him  what  he  was.  She  took  up  a 
fresh  sheet  and  put  it  in  the  machine  with  a  look  that  dis 
missed  him. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  in  a  changed  voice,  "but  you  are 
quite  wrong.  No  one  is  interested  in  me." 

He  turned  angrily  away,  followed  by  the  slow  clicking  of 
the  machine. 

"How  self-willed  women  can  be,"  he  thought.  What 
tenacity  was  concealed  beneath  the  slim  shell  of  Antonia 
Christy's  body  and  beyond  her  gentle  face.  When  a  woman 
wants  anything  how  she  holds  on  until  she  gets  it ! 

This  led  naturally  to  thoughts  of  Rose.  "But  she  is  not 
like  other  women  !"  he  consoled  himself. 

To  think  of  her  made  him  restless  and  impatient  with  the 
duties  of  the  day.  There  were  a  number  of  things  that 
waited  for  his  attention.  He  longed  to  be  finished  with 
them,  free  to  go  out  of  the  room  and  shut  business  behind 
the  closed  door.  But  his  conscience  would  not  permit  this 
exit  until  everything  was  in  order.  He  wondered  where  his 
old  joy  in  work  had  gone.  Before  Rose  Dupagny  came  into 
his  life  no  day  had  been  long  enough.  When  he  lived  at 
the  Thelma  Avenue  boarding-house  and  wore  thin  blue  serge 
ready-mades,  even  the  days  were  not  enough.  There  were 
the  nights — glorious  hours  stolen  from  sleep,  crowded  with 
knowledge. 

But  that  belonged  to  another  part  of  his  life — like  child 
hood.  He  had  outgrown  study  and  come  into  accomplish 
ment  ;  there  were  times  when,  with  his  superior  insight  into 
men  and  conditions,  he  felt  with  superb  elation  that  he  held 
Cresston  and  its  affairs  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  to 


134  THE  THRESHOLD 

mold  as  he  desired.  There  was  but  one  thing  between  him 
self  and  these  aims — money. 

Cleve  was  familiar  with  the  national  ideal  of  the  strug 
gling  young  man  reaching  fame  in  his  shirtsleeves,  but  he 
had  no  desire  to  make  this  his  own.  When  his  time  came — 
as  he  was  so  sure  it  would  come — he  did  not  plan  to  ride 
into  success  on  the  shoulders  of  the  populace ;  it  suited  him 
far  better  to  arrive  in  a  limousine.  The  hysterical  bravos 
o»f  the  poor  for  one  of  their  own  kind  did  not  deceive  him. 
He  knew  that  to  retain  such  loyalty  he  must  retain  the  char 
acter  of  poverty  and  he  vastly  preferred  the  respect,  even  if 
tinctured  with  envy  and  hatred,  which  belongs,  to  affluence. 

But  where  was  he  to  get  the  money?  This  was  the  weak 
link  that  worried  him. 

The  practice  of  law  in  a  town  like  Cresston  does  not  bring 
sudden  wealth  if  it  is  unmixed  with  politics.  With  all  his 
efforts  he  could  not  hope  to  amass  a  fortune  very  soon. 

But  Qeve  had  implicit  faith  in  himself.  He  did  not 
worry  long  over  the  question  of  where  his  problematical 
fortune  was  to  come  from,  for  he  was  satisfied  that  it  would 
come,  sooner  or  later.  In  the  meantime,  having  worked  so 
long,  he  could  afford  to  play  a  little.  .  .  .  There  was 
Rose.  .  .  . 

He  was  in  love  with  Rose.  When  he  thought  of  her  his 
head  grew  dizzy  and  he  felt  a  choking  sensation  as  though 
his  collar  were  too  tight.  As  this  passed  he  would  breathe 
deeply.  This  was  ridiculous  and.  he  was  ashamed  of  it,  but 
at  the  same  time  he  was  helpless  under  the  spell  of  this 
uncontrollable  excitement.  Nothing  had  ever  affected  him 
in  quite  the  same  way.  It  was  inexplicable  and  he  was  im 
patient  with  his  impotence  before  this'  strange,  strong  emo 
tion. 


THE  THRESHOLD  135 

He  knew  all  the  rapture'  of  love,  but  he  did  not  wish  to 
be  its  slave.  Even  in  the'  beginning  of  this  violent  experi 
ence  he  called  ajl  his  calm  forcefulness  to  order  and  vowed 
that  he  would  control  the  headlong  infatuation  that  pos 
sessed  him.  When  he  reviewed  all  that  had  been,  he  was 
less  conscious  of  Rose's  beauty  than  of  the  gulf  between 
them  which  she  had  crossed  with  a  single  step-. 

•She  had  everything.  She  could  charm  whom  she  would, 
yet  she  had  chosen  him.  He  realized  how  far  afield  he  had 
been  in  his  judgment  of  women ;  he  had  gone  on,  grubbing 
for  years,  believing  that  knowledge  gained  everything,  yet 
with  a  single  word  a  woman  had  proven  him  in  the  wrong. 
Rose  cared  nothing  for  his  knowledge ;  it  obviously  bored  her, 
— she  even  called  him  pedantic  at  times.  She  had  not  fallen 
in  love  with  him  because  he  was  clever.  He  was  beginning 
to  discover  that  wdmen  cared  nothing  for  brains,  and  in 
the  throes  of  this  new  adventure  he  was  uncertain  whether 
he  or  they  were  more  deserving 'of  contempt.  In  the  mean 
time  he  abandoned  himself  to  happiness. 

Had  he  cared  enough,  he  could  have  given  all  his  time  to 
pleasure.  The  gay,  pretty  young  women  of  Cresston  made 
him  their  own.  When  he  was  with  them  they  petted  and 
pouted  over'  him ;  when  they  could  not  reach  him  in  person 
they  besought  through  the  telephone  and  with  little  notes 
— calling  his  mind  from  graver  matters.  They  tried  to  ruin 
him,  not  dreaming  that  their  light  speculative  interest  was 
destruction. 

George  Wickersham,  who  retained  an  interest  in  the  boy 
in  spite  of  his  desertion,  told  him  that  the  women  were 
ruining  him  and  Cleve  only  laughed.  He  was  confident  of 
his  power  to  pull  up  when  the  time  came. 

"No  man  ever  got  far  without  a  woman  to  help  him,"  he 


136  THE  THRESHOLD 

said,  with  the  wisdom  won  from  other  men's  sayings,  and 
Wickersham,  who  had  a  stout  wife  and  half  a  dozen  chil 
dren,  agreed  with  a  reservation. 

"True.  But  it's  got  to  be  the  right  sort  of  woman.  A 
wife.  A  wife  chosen  from  a  good  family,  money  or  no 
money.  That  counts  but  not  as  much  as  other  things.  .  .  . 
A  woman  you  can  trust.  .  .  ." 

Cleve  thought  of  Bessie.  He  was  very  glad  that  she  was 
safely  married,  and  that  the  rest  of  the  Wickershams  were 
boys.  He  thought  his  friend  old-fashioned  and  far  less  wise 
than  himself.  He  was  startled  when  the  other  man  spoke 
abruptly  of  other  things. 

"Your  name  has  been  mentioned  for  Legislature  next 
term.  They  want  a  young  man  and  your  record  abroad 
will  help.  If  you  go  easy  and  make  no  mistakes.  .  .  ." 

Cleve  forgot  Rose  for  several  hours  after  that.  While 
he  was  outwardly  busy  with  the  papers  on  his  desk  his 
mind  leaped  through  seons  of  brilliant  moments  that 
saw  him  pass  from  one  high  office  to  another.  The  Legis 
lature  at  his  age  meant  practically  anything  in  twenty 
years  ...  if  no  mistakes  were  made.  He  resolved  to 
make  none. 

The  telephone  shrilled  at  his  elbow.  Simultaneously  he 
realized  the  cessation  of  a  sound  in  the  outer  office  which 
had  punctuated  his  reflection.  The  typewriter  had  ceased 
its  monotonous  clicking.  .  .  .  one  of  'Antonia's  duties  was 
answering  the  calls  that  came  in  at  her  desk  and  were  trans 
mitted  to  the  switches  in  the  private  rooms.  He  was  frown 
ing  heavily  as  he  took  off  the  receiver  in  time  to  speak  to 
her.  "I  am  answering."  He  did  not  know  that  the  call 
was  for  him,  but  he  believed  it  might  be  and  he  did  not  care 
for  Antonia  as  an' intermediary. 

Rose's  voice  came  like  a  narrow  ribbon  of  silver  unfurl 


THE  THRESHOLD  137 

ing    through    the    instrument.  .  .  .  She    was    lonely.     She 
wanted  hhru 

He  became  electrified  at  her  first  word.  The  office,  his 
work,  all  that  had  held  him  sunk  to  insignificance.  The 
future  became  vague  and  retreating ;  there  was  time  enough 
fo-r  that.  He  was'  young. 

He  forgot  everything  except  the  necessity  of  seeing  her  at 
once.  In  the  outer  room.  Antonia  was  bent  over  her  type 
writer  once  more;  her  dark  head  smooth  as  a  bird's  wing; 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  profile,  pure  and  cold.  Then 
he  forgot  her. 

Peter  was  there.  Peter  had  a  private  room  for  his  own 
clients,  but  it  was  his  custom  to  see  most  of  them  in  the 
main  office.  He  explained  this  by  saying  naively  that  he 
got  rid  of  them  sooner  there,  and  he  had  an  adroit  system 
of  asking  questions  which  concealed  their  real  meaning  and 
left  the  answerer  unembarrassed.  Laurence  Dupagny  was 
with  him  now,  urging,  almost  entreating,  support  for  some 
enterprise  of  his  own.  This  time  it  was  an  irrigation  project 
to  be  launched  in  Colorado.  Dupagny  was  dry-lipped  and 
haggard  and  looked  as  though  he  had  been  sleeping  badly. 
He  spoke  in  that  serious  half  whisper  with  which  men  ap 
proach  other  men  when  they  want  their  money  and  have 
none  of  their  own  to  match  with. 

"I  tell  you,  it  can't  fail,  Withrow.  I'm  coming  to  you 
with  this  gilt-edged  proposition  because  you're  about  the 
only  man  in  town  who  has  any  loose  money.  Everybody 
else  is  up  to  the  neck  in  spite  of  the  stories  you  hear.  If 
it  was  three  months  later  I  couldn't  offer  you  the  inside 
price  I  can  to-day.  You  know  how  they  went  after  the  city 
bonds  and  the  street  railway  stock.  .  .  .  That's  a  record  for 
you  ...  a  town's  indebtedness  owned  by  its  citizens  .  .  . 
and  they're  not  going  to  lose.  This  town  has  passed  the  stage 


138  THE  THRESHOLD 

when  it  lets  its  own  improvements  go  to  smash,  and  pretty 
soon  the  original  investors  are  going  to  let  loose  at  a  profit. 
Cresston  is  full  of  money — war  money — but  every  cent  is 
invested  except  what  they  spend  for  clothes  and  auto 
mobiles.  .  .  .  When  they  begin  to  cash  in  I  could  walk 
across  the  Square  and  sell  every  share  I  hold  in  this  Colo 
rado  deal  .  .  .  then  the  price  would  go  rocketing.  .  .  .  You 
see  that  ?  I  want  you  to  have  some  away  below  par,  so  you 
can  give  some  of  these  wise  guys  the  laugh  when  they  have 
to  double  your  price  to  get  it,  if  they  get  it  at  all.  You  can 
clean  up  on  it,  Withrow." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  'clean  up/  "  Peter  argued  whim 
sically,  "I  have  an  automobile  and  all  the  clothes  I  can  wear. 
What's  the  use  of  having  a  lot  of  money?  Why  should  I 
disturb  our  good  citizens  who  are  satisfied  with  their  rail 
way  bonds  ?  They'll  be  having  strikes  and  other  unpleasant 
scenes  in  the  pleasant  streets  of  our  little  city  if  we  start 
trading  in  stocks.  Why  not  let  well  enough  alone  ?" 

Dupagny  flushed  darkly  and  started  to  rise.  "Oh,  well ! 
If  you  are  making  a  joke  of  it — 

Peter  hastened  to  reassure  him.  He  was  not  joking; 
nothing  was  further  from  his  thoughts.  Dupagny  resumed 
his  seat,  taking  up  the  conversation  where  he  had  left  off, 
and  Peter  listened  with  the  gravest  interest.  It  was  at  this 
moment  that  Cleve  entered  the  room,  and  both  men,  glanc 
ing  up,  allowed  the  subject  to  lag  without  understanding  why 
they  did  so;  it  seemed  that  his  presence  put  the  questions 
they  had  been  discussing  into  the  background  to  make  way 
for  more  momentous  affairs. 

Cleve  was  smiling  with  an  air  of  insouciance.  He  tried 
to  meet  Dupagny  with  this  smile,  but  something  leaped  from 
the  eyes  of  both  men  and  lay  between  them  like  a  dagger. 
Dupagny  slumped  in  his  chair,  barely  acknowledging  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  139 

greeting  and  his  heavy  brows  met  in  a  scowl  above  the  high, 
thin  nose.  His  manner  was  brusk  and  uncivil,  in  marked 
contrast  to  his  usual  behavior.  Cleve  was  not  sensitive,  but 
he  could  not  fail  to  notice  what  was  almost  an  affront.  He 
had  intended  to  stop  for  a  few  casual  words,  but  he  hurried 
past  with  only  an  offhand  remark  to  Peter. 

"I'll  be  back  about  five,"  and  went  out  with  a  short  nod 
to  the  others. 

He  went  straight  to  Rose.  She  was  waiting  for  him  in 
her  little  living-room  that,  unlike  other  Cresston  rooms,  was 
always  cool  and  dark  and  uncrowded  with  furniture  such 
as  other  women  seemed  to  think  necessary.  The  Dupagny 
house  was  one  of  the  prettiest  in  town  and  had  an  air  of 
luxury  which  the  cost  of  its  contents  did  not  justify,  though 
nobody  gave  the  credit  of  this  where  it  really  belonged — 
to  Rose  herself. 

She  was  half  reclining  on  a  broad,  low,  wicker  settee  be 
neath  a  window  from  which  she  must  have  watched  his 
approach.  There  were  deep  colored  cushions  behind  her 
head  and  in  her  violet  gown  her  slim  body  nestled  among 
them  becoming  a  part  of  the  whole.  In  the  dim  light  she 
appeared  fragile  and  elusive  and  the  color  of  her  dress  ac 
centuated  the  shadows  beneath  her  eyes.  She  put  out  her 
hand  to  meet  Cleve's  with  a  little  caressing  gesture.  "Did 
you  mind  coining?"  she  murmured. 

They  were  very  discreet  in  their  greeting;  their  lips  said 
little  but  their  eyes  spoke  of  everything.  "When  we  are 
alone — "  her  glance  seemed  to  promise. 

They  were  alone  in  Rose's  drawing-room  and  yet  they 
v;ere  not  alone.  Through  the  blue  curtains  that  divided  the 
room  from  another,  the  slim  black  and  white  silhouette  of 
the  maid  showed  for  a  second,  mysterious  and  fleeting  evi 
dence  of  life  in  the  background  of  Rose's  full  life.  And 


140  THE  THRESHOLD 

in  a  little  while,  as  though  it  had  been  subdued  by  his  com 
ing,  a  voice,  Miss  Plumey's  voice,  was  heard  in  song. 

"She  is  in  the  library  painting  place  cards  for  a  dinner," 
Rose  explained  with  an  amused  glance.  "There  is  more 
light  there." 

Her  unexpectedness  always  fascinated  him.  He  remem 
bered  shamefacedly  that  he  had  come  to  this  appointment 
with  unrecognized  anticipations,  but  instead  of  the  fulfillment 
of  these  vague  hopes  he  found  her  surrounded,  chaperoned, 
and  attended.  No  chance  for  a  lover  here ;  no  stolen  hour, 
— no  prearranged  bliss. 

Rose  did  not  have  much  to  tell  him,  after  all.  She  seemed 
content  to  lie  among  her  cushions,  her  eyes  caressing  him 
with  long,  veiled  glances.  And  Qeve,  by  turns  responsive, 
annoyed  and  mystified  by  the  situation  she  had  prepared  for 
him,  took  refuge  at  length  in  a  repetition  of  the  talk  wh-ich 
had  occurred  between  him  and  Wickersham  that  day. 

"The  legislature  at  my  age  means  anything  I  want  a  few 
years  from  now,"  he  repeated,  parroting  Wickersham ;  and 
added,  unconscious  that  the  phrase  was  not  his  own,  "If  I 
play  my  cards  right  and  don't  make  mistakes."  Without 
intending  it  he  reversed  the  situation,  depriving  Rose  with 
a  mere  sentence  of  her  advantage. 

The  spirit  of  mischief  left  her  and  she  became  subdued. 
Her  quick  instinct  leaped  to  a  meaning  behind  Cleve's  words 
to  which  he  himself  was  oblivious.  It  was  the  first  pang  of 
a  hundred  that  she  was  to  feel,  though  its  bitterness  was 
alleviated  by  his  obvious  unconsciousness.  For  a  revealing 
moment  she  beheld  the  measureless  distance  between  them 
which  only  the  strongest,  most  enduring  love  could  bridge. 

"What  are  you  thinking  ?"  Cleve  asked,  reading  the  doubt 
but  not  its  answer  upon  her  face. 

She  lied  to  him,  of  course.     In  such  a  case  frankness  was 


THE  THRESHOLD  141 

impossible.  How  could  she  remind  him  that  he  was  younger 
than  she;  at  the  beginning  of  his  career;  and  that  in  the 
eyes  of  their  world,  she  herself,  might  be  the  "mistake"  at 
which  his  friend  and  mentor  had  hinted. 

The  black  and  white  maid  tinkled  delicate  glassware  near 
an  open  door  somewhere,  and  Miss  Plumey's  chant  grew  in 
volume.  "Do  you  love  me  ?"  murmured  Rose,  taking  refuge 
in  an  ancient  formula. 

But  she  did  not  know  Cleve  in  spite  of  her  power  over 
him.  She  did  not  realize  how  very  new  he  was  to  situations 
such  as  this, — to  such  women  as  she  ...  to  love.  He  gave 
her  a  sullen  glance.  .  .  .  "Are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

She  was  startled.  After  a  pause  she  smiled  conciliatingly. 
"Laughing?  No.  I  am  jealous.  Ethel  has  told  me  a 
pretty  story.  It  seems  she  has  a  dressmaker  who  lives  in  a 
boarding-house.  To  this  place  has  come  a  beautiful  young 
girl  and  this  girl  is  employed  by  Peter  Withrow  and 
you.  .  .  .  There  is  a  romantic  story  that  she  quarreled  with 
her  father  and  left  home.  Why  have  I  never  heard  of  her  ?" 

In  her  effort  to  recapture  the  spirit  of  her  earlier  mood, 
Rose  was  guilty  of  an  error.  Her  words  sounded  both 
mocking  and  proprietory ;  either  tone  a  direct  challenge,  and 
what  was  meant  for  banter  had  only  the  effect  of  destroying 
his  good  humor.  He  was  frowning  when  he  replied  with  a 
shrug,  as  though  tilting  the  whole  affair  from  his  shoulders. 
"Employed  by  Peter — not  by  me.  How  could  I  know  that 
you  would  be  interested  in  his  philanthropies?" 

"Philanthropies?    Then  she  is  not  pretty,  after  all." 

"I  did  not  say  that.  She  is  even  beautiful."  She  allowed 
him  to  see  her  wince  and  he  was  sufficiently  annoyed  to 
enjoy  the  spectacle.  But  he  felt  a  queer  distaste  for  a  dis 
cussion  which  had  Antonia  for  its  object.  "Let  us  speak  of 
something  else,"  he  said  brusquely. 


142  THE  THRESHOLD 

Rose  slipped  back  among  her  cushions,  folding  her  hands 
behind  her  head.  Her  expression  altered  to  a  faint  sadness. 
"I  wish  I  had  known  you  a  long  time  ago,"  she  said  dreamily. 

In  a  moment  his  irritation  was  gone.  In  spite  of  her 
half-voiced  protest  he  came  over  and  sat  beside  her  on  a  low 
tabouret  that  was  meant  for  tea  or  cigars.  This  brought  their 
faces  close  together  and  he  could  see  the  delicate  penciled 
lines  about  her  eyes,  the  touch  of  rouge  that,  far  from 
lessening,  served  to  enhance  her  beauty,  its  daintiness  and 
charm.  He  looked  at  every  feature  eagerly  as  if  to  reassure 
himself  that  he  was  familiar  with  this  beauty — that  nothing 
eluded  him. 

"I  wish  I  had  known  you  long  ago,"  she  repeated 
slowly,  "before  I  knew  Larry — when  I  was  a  girl." 

Men  do  not  indulge  in  these  useless  retrospections.  Why 
was  she  not  content  with  the  present  ?  He  uttered  the  vague 
reassurance  of  his  kind,  "I  love  you  best  as  you  are — " 

He  could  not  understand  that  she  wanted  to  give  him 
the  best  of  her,  and  his  own  past  was  too  recent  to  invite 
excursions  into  its  "might  have  beens"  .  .  .  But  he  saw 
the  disappointment  in  her  face  and  turned  her  slim  hand 
over  to  kiss  its  palm. 

"Think  what  we  would  miss — the  dances  at  the  club — 
moonlight.  It  would  not  be  the  same.  .  .  ."  He  tried  to 
speak  whimsically,  but  this  was  dangerous  ground.  Sud 
denly  they  both  remembered  that  she  was  older  than  he — 
six  years.  She  bit  her  lips  in  chagrin  at  the  senseless 
blunder  that  led  to  this  useless  sentimentality.  The  thought 
persisted  in  her  mind — she  was  older  than  he.  It  could  not 
last. 

He  saw  the  trouble  in  her  eyes  without  dreaming  of  its 
origin.  It  made  him  forget  everything — even  caution. 


THE  THRESHOLD  143 

"How  can  you  be  sad  when  we  are  together?"  he  whis 
pered  and  kissed  her  lips. 

The  maid  appeared  between  the  blue  curtains,  wheeling 
the  tea  wagon.  She  came  like  a  ghost  with  none  of  the 
swishing  steps  and  tinkling  glasses  of  ten  minutes  ago. 

"The  tea,  Mrs.  Dupagny,"  she  said,  icily. 

Rose  had  forgotten  that  she  herself  had  arranged  this 
interruption,  but  she  had  not  foreseen  the  kiss.  She  was 
warm  with  this  triumph  of  the  passing  moment  and  was 
inclined  to  smile,  making  light  of  the  contretemps.  "Bring 
it  nearer,  Jessie,"  she  ordered,  languidly.  She  wondered 
how  much  the  girl  had  seen  or  guessed  but  she  was  not 
alarmed ;  she  was  one  of  the  people  who  make  the  mistake 
of  disregarding  a  servant's  opinions.  She  did  not  remember 
that  Jessie  had  chosen  domestic  service  because  of  a  heroic 
regard  for  propriety. 

It  was  then  that  Miss  Plumey  demonstrated  her  character 
of  useful  friend.  In  the  artistic  disarray  of  a  green  painting 
apron  and  with  her  hands  full  of  place  cards  she  appeared 
behind  the  interfering  maid. 

"I  am  not  really  so  rude  as  I  seem,"  she  cried  with  a  gay 
giggle  toward  Cleve.  "See !  You  can't  imagine  how  busy 
I've  been  to  get  all  these  finished  in  a  single  afternoon.  Mrs. 
Waddell's  cards — all  of  them.  The  dinner's  going  to  be 
wonderful." 

And  with  that  Miss  Plumey  fell  upon  the  tea.  She  in 
sisted  on  making  it  and  waiting  upon  Cleve  and  Rose  as 
though  they  were  her  guests.  She  claimed  with  a  fantastic 
assumption  of  childishness  that  it  was  like  "playing  house," 
and  the  others  were  forced  into  laughter  they  did  not  feel 
by  her  elephantine  playfulness. 

The  maid  assisted  nimbly,  as  far  as  Miss  Plumey  would 


144  THE  THRESHOLD 

permit,  but  there  was  a  change  in  her  demeanor.  She  looked 
everywhere  but  at  her  mistress.  Rose  alone  sensed  this 
avoidance.  She  thought:  "Jessie  saw  us.  She  knows 
everything."  But  this  was  an  exaggerated  assumption,  for 
there  was  nothing  to  warrant  so  sweeping  an  assertion. 
Fear  is  a  swiftly  growing  plant,  and  from  the  moment  the 
thought  entered  Rose's  mind  she  knew  no  peace.  Instead 
of  listening  to  the  gay  talk  of  her  companions,  she  was 
wondering  how  she  could  set  about  restoring  Jessie's 
confidence  or  buying  her  silence,  if  that  proved  neces 
sary. 

When  everything  was  ready  Miss  Plumey  said :  "You 
ma7  g°>  Jessie,"  as  though  both  maid  and  tea  were  her 
affair.  She  was  filled  with  a  vicarious  importance,  knowing 
very  well  that  she  had  been  asked  to  come  that  afternoon 
to  fill  the  office  of  chaperone.  At  the  same  time  she  was 
jealous  and  resentful  of  the  ease  with  which  the  other 
woman  captured  and  held  Cleve  Harkness,  and  her  merri 
ment  was  assumed  partly  to  conceal  her  spite.  Miss  Plumey 
knew  that  in  any  case  he  would  never  have  looked  at  her, 
but  she  could  not  stifle  the  feeling  that  it  would  have  been 
easier  to  give  him  up  to  any  other  woman  than  her  friend 
and  patron. 

But  nothing  of  this  showed  on  the  surface  of  the  tea 
hour  which  came  to  a  hilarious  close,  punctuated  with 
gossip  that  had  been  gathered  from  Miss  Plumey's  inti 
macies  at  other  houses.  She  told  an  amusing  story  about 
the  Nevilles,  a  couple  whose  bickerings  were  so  well  known 
that  to  discuss  them  could  not  be  called  gossip. 

"He  forbade  poor  Viola  to  charge  anything  over  a  certain 
amount  at  the  stores,"  explained  the  tale-teller,  "and  that 
forced  her  to  have  a  separate  account.  Well,  my  dears,  one 
day  after  Viola  had  been  lunching  somewhere  she  felt 


THE  THRESHOLD  145 

expansive  and  stopped  into  Deveraux's  and  had  some  per 
fectly  wonderful  things  sent  up.  Don't  ask  me  what,  Mr. 
Harkness — well,  the  stupid  clerk  charged  them  to  Philip — 
or  Viola  forgot  to  tell  them  about  her  own  account,  or 
something.  .  .  .  Anyway,  at  the  end  of  the  month  the 
charge  was  not  on  her  bill  and  she  rushed  down  to  the 
store  but  it  was  too  late.  The  bill  had  gone  to  Philip  and 
all  the  things  she  had  bought  made  a  terrific  item.  Poor 
Viola  went  home  frightened  to  death,  expecting  a  scene — but 
did  it  happen?  It  did  not.  Instead,  Philip- brought  her  some 
roses,  the  first  in  six  months,  and  not  a  word  was  spoken. 
She  saw  the  bill  in  his  pocket  and  the  question  is — who 
didn't  get  the  things  that  Viola  bought  ?" 

Miss  Plumey  and  Cleve  were  departing  amicably  together 
when  they  encountered  Laurence  Dupagny  arriving  some 
what  earlier  than  was  his  custom.  His  greeting  was  almost 
uncivil  and  Ethel  gave  a  nervous  giggle.  "He  looks  as  though 
he  didn't  approve  of  us,"  she  whispered ;  "poor  Rose,  won't 
she  pay  for  this." 

"Does  he  bully  her?"  asked  Cleve,  glancing  back  at  the 
house  they  had  left.  He  had  not  enjoyed  the  afternoon 
especially  and  now  a  distinct  impression  of  unpleasantness 
persisted.  This  sort  of  thing  might  be  termed  "a  mistake," 
to  quote  Wickersham,  and  his  annoyance  extended  to  Rose. 
Why  should  he  be  placed  in  the  position  of  gaining  a  hus 
band's  displeasure  when  the  reward  was  no  greater  than  a 
walk  with  Miss  Plumey?  "Is  he  unkind  to  her?"  he  asked 
again  in  an  absent  voice.  He  was  disturbed  by  the  other 
man's  expression.  He  had  not  counted  on  Laurence  Du- 
pagny's  enmity. 

Rose  had  not  moved  from  her  position  by  the  window 
when  her  husband  entered.  She  gave  him  a  little  nod  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Her  expression  gave  no  hint  that  she  was 


146  THE  THRESHOLD 

acutely  aware  of  his  presence  or  that  it  disturbed  her 
immeasurably. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  finally,  when  she  could  endure 
his  intent  gaze  no  longer. 

But  the  scene  she  expected  did  not  develop.  He  only 
sighed  in  a  puzzled,  resigned  way  and  when  she  opened 
her  eyes  had  left  the  room  to  go  heavily  upstairs. 

She  followed  slowly,  with  a  sense  of  reprieve.  She  was 
suddenly  conscious  of  the  nearness  of  disaster.  What  had 
prompted  her  to  send  for  Cleve  and  what  could  come  of 
such  meetings  except  danger  for  both?  She  remembered 
Miss  Plumey's  stories  about  other  friends  and  resolved  that 
never  again  would  she  put  such  confidence  to  the  test. 
She  was  safe,  but  she  might  have  lost  everything! 

An  instinct  of  self-preservation  urged  her  to  make  herself 
beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  she  constantly  betrayed, 
and  she  called  Jessie  from  her  work  in  the  dining-room 
to  help  with  her  gown. 

The  girl  came  unwillingly.  Once  her  silence  would  have 
passed  unnoticed,  but  now  Rose  was  keenly  alive  to  the 
meaning  of  little  things.  "Something  has  disturbed  her," 
she  thought,  and  wondered  how  she  could  begin  an  in 
quiry. 

She  remembered  her  earlier  suspicion  that  the  girl  might 
have  seen  Cleve  kiss  her !  It  was  too  absurd.  Why  should 
the  creature  assume  such  airs  even  if  this  were  true?  She 
was  indignant  at  the  criticism  she  read  in  Jessie's  manner 
and  hurt  at  the  lack  of  charity  in  one  whom  she  had  helped 
in  a  hundred  ways,  but  at  the  same  time  she  reviewed  her 
wardrobe,  mentally  selecting  what  articles  she  could  sacrifice 
as  a  peace  offering. 

During  the  silent  dinner  the  girl  did  not  unbend.     There 


THE  THRESHOLD  147 

was  none  of  the  pretty  understanding  she  had  managed 
to  convey  to  her  mistress  and  through  her  service  she  re 
mained  sullen  and  aloof,  with  the  manner  of  the  domestic 
whose  virtue  has  been  questioned.  She  was  an  excellent 
maid  with  the  capacity  for  serving  carefully  developed  by 
Rose,  and  her  hostility  was  so  blended  with  dignity  that  her 
mistress'  conscience  alone  could  distinguish  between  them. 
The  dinner  progressed  to  its  last  moment  and  the  Dupagnys, 
having  finished  their  undesired  coffee,  were  about  to  rise 
when  Jessie,  who  had  been  absent  in  the  pantry,  reappeared. 
For  the  first  time  she  looked  directly  at  Rose. 

"My  month  is  up  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Dupagny,  and  I  am 
leaving,"  she  said. 

It  was  an  unfair  attack.  Rose  fell  back  before  it.  "Leav 
ing?"  she  stammered.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

The  girl  continued  to  watch  her  triumphantly.  In  a  few 
moments  she  was  making  reprisal  for  all  the  petty  wounds 
which  are  unescapable  when  one  woman  takes  orders  from 
another.  She  had  not  known  that  these  were  wounds  until 
Rose  sacrificed  her  respect,  but  now  they  were  magically 
healed  by  the  sight  of  discomfiture,  which  was  not  what 
she  had  expected.  "I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Tyson,"  she  added 
primly.  "A  reference  is  not  necessary." 

Rose  was  bewildered.  It  had  been  a  day  of  errors.  Like 
Cleve  she  remembered  too  late  that  her  action,  simple  in 
the  beginning,  was  a  "mistake"!  She  resolved  to  beware 
of  impulse  after  this.  Impulse  had  caused  her  to  send  for 
Cleve  and  now  Jessie  was  going  to  Nina  Tyson  who  treated 
her  friends  more  cruelly  than  any  woman  in  Cresston. 

"How  fiercely  my  head  aches,"  she  said  to  Dupagny, 
taking  refuge  in  the  strong  citadel  which  women  have  built 
for  themselves.  She  was  afraid  of  any  more  conversation 


148  THE  THRESHOLD 

that  evening — each  step  seemed  to  lead  to  deeper  disaster. 
But  Dupagny  was  thinking  of  Jessie's  desertion. 

"We  owe  her  three  months,"  he  grumbled ;  "why  do  you 
let  servant's  wages  fall  behind?  Servants  can  do  more  to 
ruin  credit  than  any  other  debt." 

"Credit?"  murmured  Rose,  and  added  silently,  "If  credit 
were  all." 


CHAPTER  XV 

MISS  PLUMEY  was  one  of  those  who  from  earliest 
infancy  seem  doomed  to  suffer  through  the  idiosyn 
crasies  of  others.  She  was  never  able  to  understand,  even 
when  she  became  old  and  ceased  to  be  an  active  combatant 
in  life,  just  why  the  deeds  and  inclinations  of  those  within 
her  radius  should  have  the  power  of  reflecting  and  influ 
encing  her  own  deeds  and  inclinations.  Certainly  it  was 
not  through  her  desire  that  her  neighbors'  weaknesses  and 
failures  became  her  own.  She  did  not  attempt  to  understand 
the  universal  laws  which  govern  this  human  phenomenon — 
it  is  doubtful  if  she  ever  heard  of  such  laws.  And  so  she 
was  left  free  to  fret  and  pine  and  bruise  her  shallow  breast 
against  the  inevitable. 

Miss  Plumey  was  not  beautiful,  yet  she  had  seen  others 
with  as  little  or  even  less  attraction,  win  triumphantly  in 
the  finals  of  life.  She  was  not  charming  but  she  was  clever 
— though  not  clever  enough  to  diagnose  her  own  weakness. 

In  her  little  aims  it  seemed  that  she  was  being  continually 
thwarted — not  by  the  persons  whose  friendship  she  sought, 
but  by  those  from  whom  she  had  every  right  to  expect  aid 
and  cooperation.  Looking  backward  upon  a  childhood  em 
bittered  by  bodily  existence  in  an  ugly  brown  house  upon 
a  modest  side  street  when  her  soul  was  far  afield  among 
the  great  of  Armitage  and  Hyslop  Avenues,  she  could 
discern,  through  countless  mistakes  and  disappointments,  the 
truth  that  much  of  her  tragedy  resulted  from  the  low  affili 
ations  of  her  family. 

149 


150  THE  THRESHOLD 

Mrs.  Plumey  herself  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  this  judg 
ment.  With  the  adaptability  of  her  sex  she  had  in  a 
measure  discarded  the  customs  of  her  early  married  life; 
for  constant  association  with  a  daughter,  whose  finer  feel 
ings  were  outraged  by  stone  china  and  checked  tablecloths, 
had  refined  and  elevated  her  tastes  as  well.  Gradually  she 
had  developed  into  an  unostentatious  club  woman  and 
improver  of  the  home,  and  the  younger  Plumeys,  coming 
after  Ethel,  were  spared  much  that  had  distressed  the  mind 
of  their  elder  sister.  Mrs.  Plumey  was  not  impossible.  She 
was  a  woman  competent  to  take  her  place  upon  a  committee, 
and  the  children  showed  budding,  social  ambitions  which 
were  carefully  nurtured.  The  Plumeys'  shortcomings  were 
chiefly  due  to  Mr.  Plumey,  upon  whom  all  careful  tutoring 
was  a  wasted  effort.  For  many  years  he  had  enjoyed  his 
supper  in  his  shirtsleeves,  and  he  continued  to  do  so,  though 
the  scene  of  his  operations  had  been  changed  to  a  small 
room  opening  off  the  kitchen.  He  had  been  a  well  digger 
in  his  early  youth  and  through  the  years  had  arrived  at  the 
ownership  of  a  plumbing  establishment.  He  was  now  a 
taxpayer  and  a  member  of  the  City  Council,  but  nothing 
had  ever  refined  him  and  he  was  not  proud  from  success. 
His  favorite  companion  was  the  policeman  on  the  beat. 
There  were  many  times  when  his  eldest  daughter,  returning 
from  the  spectacle  of  a  friend's  wedding,  looked  upon  her 
parent  peacefully  smoking  a  vile  pipe  in  the  grape  arbor 
behind  the  house,  and  reflected  bitterly  that  it  was  no 
wonder  she  had  never  married. 

On  one  occasion  she  was  returning  from  a  successful  hour 
with  the  chosen,  triumphing  in  the  reflection  that  she  had 
been  called  "Ethel"  personally  by  three  of  the  most  exclu 
sive  women  in  town.  As  she  pictured  a  future  that  would 
see  her  rising  consistently  in  the  social  scale — in  which 


THE  THRESHOLD  151 

flight  she  would  bear  with  her  the  more  or  less  dragging 
impedimenta  of  an  unambitious  family — she  suddenly  found 
herself  confronted  by  the  demoralizing  vision  of  her  father 
in  close  conversation  with  the  patrolman  who  seemed  to 
stand  like  an  ogre  in  the  way  of  her  social  ambitions. 

The  Eurridges,  who  had  recently  made  their  money  in  oil 
and  therefore  demanded  an  uncompromisingly  clean  slate 
from  every  one,  had  driven  her  to  the  corner  in  their  blue 
limousine  and  even  now  were  moving  luxuriously  away  at 
throttled  third  speed.  They  must  have  seen — Mrs.  Burridge 
had  the  eye  of  a  catbird  and  poor  Miss  Plumey's  heart  sank. 
Mr.  Plumey  had  enjoyed  the  contract  for  all  the  plumbing 
in  the  Burridge's  new  house,  which  alone  was  bad  enough, 
and  for  this  reason  it  was  unlikely  that  he  had  escaped 
recognition.  Ethel  recalled  painful  passages  which  must 
have  imprinted  the  Plumey  image  upon  the  Burridge  mind 
ineradicably.  Mrs.  Burridge  was  exactly  the  sort  of  person 
to  seize  upon  a  little  thing  and  make  it  the  theme  of  end 
less  conversation.  Ethel  could  hear  her  saying,  "The 
Plumey s  are  dreadfully  low.  Wasn't  the  man  a  well  digger 
or  something?  There  is  no  telling  whom  you  might  meet 
at  their  house." 

All  this  and  more  flashed  through  Miss  Plumey's  mind 
in  a  second  as  she  saw  her  father  and  the  policeman  in 
familiar,  grinning  companionship.  She  passed  them  with 
an  icy  look  and  went  in  to  her  mother. 

"Why  can't  Pa  have  a  little  pride  ?  The  policeman  !  And 
there  was  Mrs.  Burridge  looking  on.  They  might  have  been 
brothers !" 

But  Mrs.  Plumey  had  remained  matter  of  fact  in  many 
ways,  despite  her  rise  in  the  world. 

"Well,"  she  began  defensively,  "in  a  way  they  might  as 
well  be  brothers,  as  you  say.  Eddie  Connally  and  your  pa 


152  THE  THRESHOLD 

was  raised  side  by  side,  and  the  only  difference  is  that  Pa 
has  got  on  while  Eddie  hasn't.  I'll  declare,  Ethel,  you  do 
talk  sort  of  wild  sometimes;  anybody  would  think  there 
were  kings  and  queens  in  Cresston  instead  of  just  ordinary 
folks,  like  us  and  the  Connallys  and  the  Burridges." 

But  when  Mr.  Plumey  came  in  to  supper  a  half  hour 
later  his  wife  remonstrated  with  him.  "Ethel  thinks  you 
are  ruining  her  chances,  Pa.  You  know  how  snobbish 
this  town  has  come  to  be.  It  isn't  like  old  times.  Those 
have  money  now  that  never  expected  to  have  any  and  was 
never  meant  for  it,  and  their  heads  are  sort  of  turned.  But 
if  people  have  these  silly  notions  I  suppose  we've  got  to 
live  up  to  them  whether  we  want  to  or  not,  for  the  sake  of 
the  children.  The  best  way  to  climb  is  by  stepping  on 
somebody  else,  and  my  mother  used  to  say — " 

"Who's  trying  to  climb  anywhere,"  growled  Mr.  Plumey, 
arranging  towel  and  soap,  "not  me.  Anyway  not  on  my 
frien's  necks.  I  gotta  word  to  say  to  Ethel.  The  Plumeys 
have  always  been  respectable,  if  not  fashionable.  So's  the 
Connallys.  So's  the  Burridges  s'far  as  I  know.  But  some 
of  the  folks  our  girl  is  runnin'  with  can't  lay  much  claim 
to  anything  but  fine  clothes  and  such.  You  tell  Ethel  to 
come  to  me." 

And  so  long  as  Mr.  Plumey  was  master  in  his  house 
his  family  was  constrained  to  obey  when  he  took  that  tone. 
Confronted  by  her  parent  Miss  Plumey  lost  a  measure  of 
her  superiority.  After  all,  the  plumbing  establishment  paid 
the  bills. 

"I'm  not  finding  fault,  Pa,"  she  explained,  "but  it  does 
look  queer,  seeing  you  always  with  policemen  and  people 
like  that." 

Mr.  Plumey  smiled.  In  spite  of  his  crudity  he  had  suffi 
cient  insight  into  the  character  of  his  women  folk  to  know 


THE  THRESHOLD  153 

when  he  held  the  whip  hand.  "Ha,"  he  said  triumphantly, 
"ha !"  and  his  daughter  was  forced  by  a  curiosity  that  was 
stronger  than  her  annoyed  pride  to  ask  what  he  meant. 

"Ha!"  Mr.  Plumey  repeated  victoriously,  drying  his 
fingers,  "I  reckon  some  of  your  swell  friends  would  give  a 
pretty  sum  to  be  on  the  right  terms  with  a  policeman  one 
of  these  days.  I  reckon  so."  Then  with  a  quick  rejection 
in  insinuation  and  an  equally  swift  resumption  of  parental 
authority  he  emphasized  his  statement  by  thumping  the 
screen  door  in  his  progress  through  the  house.  "Don't  ask 
me  questions.  I  won't  answer  'em.  But  you  keep  away 
from  some  of  these  folks  you're  so  thick  \vith.  One  of 
these  days  this  town's  going  to  tear  wide  open  with  a 
scandal.  Don't  let  me  hear  the  name  of  Plumey  connected 
up  with  it.  Don't  you,  now." 

Ethel  Plumey  and  her  mother  were  left  alone  to  digest 
and  analyze  this  hint — to  speculate  and  finally  abandon 
paths  that  lead  nowhere. 

"What  on  earth  does  he  mean?"  gasped  Miss  Plumey, 
staring  open-eyed  at  her  mother. 

"Never  you  mind,"  the  latter  reassured,  "I'll  find  out. 
Edward  Plumey  can't  keep  anything  from  me.  I'll  have  it 
before  to-morrow  morning." 

But  all  she  learned  from  putting  the  master  plumber 
through  the  third  degree  familiar  to  all  wives  who  are  inter 
ested  in  their  husbands'  careers,  amounted  to  bewilderment 
that  was  pierced  by  vague  high  lights  of  speculation,  as  the 
two  women  tried  in  vain  to  manufacture  from  the  hints 
they  received  some  tangible  evidence  which  would  damn 
certain  of  their  friends. 

Mrs.  Plumey  was  completely  at  sea,  but  Ethel,  permit 
ting  herself  an  ironical  smile,  remembered  bitter  hours  spent 
looking  on  at  the  unfair  love  making  of  others.  "If  they 


154  THE  THRESHOLD 

only  knew,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Perhaps  there  is  some 
thing — some  dreadful  scandal  about  to  come  to  light.  Let 
it  come." 

But  scandals,  like  summer  storms,  have  a  way  of  threat 
ening  long  before  they  break.  Not  even  a  woman's  fero 
cious  curiosity  could  force  Mr.  Plumey's  elusive  prognosti 
cation  nearer  fulfillment,  and  weeks  after,  when  the  thing 
should  have  been  disclosed  or  when  its  hydra  head  should 
have  been  hidden  forever,  Ethel  Plumey  savored  the  tantal 
izing  cud  of  uncertainty.  She  could  not  forget. 

Often  when  she  was  fulfilling  her  mission  of  useful  friend, 
pouring  tea,  mending  delicate  lace  hosiery,  answering 
troublesome  telephone  calls  and  the  like,  she  was  thinking: 
"Perhaps  in  a  moment  I  shall  know.  Some  one  will  say  a 
word.  I  shall  witness  a  look — and  I  will  know  everything." 

But  this  never  happened. 

One  afternoon  Mrs.  Plumey,  who  had  long  since  forgotten 
the  incident  and  was  far  from  imagining  herself  an  instru 
ment  of  fate,  concerned  merely  with  the  troublesome  details 
of  the  younger  Plumeys'  fall  wardrobes,  asked  her  eldest 
daughter  to  do  an  errand. 

This  was  merely  the  trivial  task  of  carrying  a  small 
package  of  thread  trimmings  and  what  not,  to  the  seam 
stress  who  lived  on  sufferance  in  Mrs.  Miller's  boarding- 
house  on  Thelma  Avenue. 

It  was  nearly  five  when  Miss  Plumey  arrived  at  her  des 
tination.  As  she  stood  on  the  narrow  porch  and  rang  the 
jangling  bell,  she  was  blind  to  the  approach  of  destiny  which 
came  to  her  with  the  aroma  of  Thursday  night's  dinner. 
So  far  from  welcoming  this,  she  met  Mrs.  Miller  with  a 
disdainful  air  when  the  landlady  herself  opened  the  door. 

"How  can  people  exist  in  such  places?  To  think  that 
Qeve  Harkness  once  lived  here!"  was  the  uncharitable 


THE  THRESHOLD  155 

thought  in  her  mind,  while  her  lips  inquired  for  the  seam 
stress  to  whom  the  package  belonged. 

Mrs.  Miller  disliked  Ethel  Plumey  and  considered  her  an 
upstart  and  a  snob,  but  her  welcome  gave  no  hint  of  her 
real  feelings.  Aside  from  the  personal  angle,  she  appre 
ciated  the  Plumey  cleverness  which  had  overridden  severe 
barriers,  and,  to  quote  her  literally,  she  was  "always  willing 
to  give  the  devil  his  due."  Having  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
to  spare  before  she  was  actually  needed  in  the  kitchen  or 
dining-room,  she  was  not  averse  to  a  chat  with  the  caller. 
She  apologized  profusely  for  the  enveloping  apron  that 
covered  her  ample  figure  and  confided  some  of  her  house 
keeping  woes  without  which  no  conversation  could  properly 
begin  according  to  boarding-house  ethics. 

"I  have  a  houseful  right  now,  and  busy  from  morning  till 
night,  you  may  be  sure,"  the  landlady  sighed,  fanning  herself 
with  somebody's  circular  letter  taken  from  the  hall  table. 

"Really?"  Miss  Plumey  was  vague.  She  was  sure 
that  no  incident  connected  with  Mrs.  Miller's  guests  could 
be  of  interest  to  her.  The  other  confirmed  this. 

"The  house  is  full,"  she  repeated  confidentially,  "but 
it  isn't  like  it  used  to  be  a  few  years  ago  when  one  could 
fill  up  on  gentlemen.  The  war  made  a  difference  in  more 
ways  than  one.  Women — women — I  sometimes  think  I  am 
never  to  see  the  end  of  them.  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
clearly  that  I'd  refuse  the  next  one,  when  Antonia  Christy 
came  along  and  wanted  a  room.  It  put  me  in  an  awkward 
position,  I  must  say.  I  couldn't  refuse  a  young  girl  when 
she  was  at  outs  with  her  own  folks — a  perfectly  ladylike 
girl,  too,  with  a  father  who  never  provided  for  her  and 
never  will,  believe  me.  Still,  up  to  the  last  minute  I  didn't 
think  I'd  take  her,  but  when  she  came  walking  in  with 
Cleve  Harkness  that  rainy  evening,  what  could  I  do?  It 


156  THE  THRESHOLD 

made  more  trouble  for  me,  and  less  money  than  a  young 
man  would  pay,  but  I  couldn't  say  no,  right  before  Cleve, 
could  I?  Knowing  the  quarrel  she'd  had  with  her  folks, 
he  might  have  thought  something  wrong,  you  know.  I  had 
to  give  in  with  what  grace  I  had." 

Miss  Plumey  lifted  her  head.  In  the  semigloom  of  the 
hall  her  profile  and  throat  had  a  vague  resemblance  to  an 
eagle  poised,  searching  the  horizon  for  a  glimpse  of  some 
secret  desire. 

"Antonia  Christy — "  she  repeated.  "Cleve  Harkness 
brought  her  here?" 

"Why,  yes."  Mrs.  Miller  made  an  infinitesimal  pause 
before  she  answered  eagerly.  She  was  flustered  a  little  by 
her  instincts;  quick  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  a  tone,  but 
defensive.  "He  brought  her  here  that  night.  Of  course 
I  knew  all  the  circumstances — everything,  Miss  Plumey. 
She  told  me  when  she  came  to  see  about  the  room.  She 
already  had  her  place  with  Mr.  Peter  Withrow,  and  she  and 
Cleve  grew  up  together,  like  brother  and  sister,  only  of 
course  the  Harknesses  never  were  a  match  for  the  Christys. 
It  was  perfectly  natural  for  him  to  come  with  her  and 
carry  her  suitcase.  He  was  so  concerned  that  night,  trying 
to  persuade  her  to  go  back  to  her  father.  He  was  going 
to  a  party,  I  remember,  and  his  clothes  were  nearly  ruined 
by  the  rain,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  careful  young  man  about 
his  clothes  it  is  Cleveland  Harkness,  so  it  must  have  taken 
something  more  than  ordinary  to  keep  him  out  in  such 
weather  without  even  knowing  it  was  raining."  Mrs.  Miller 
paused  for  breath,  feeling  that  she  had  said  enough  to 
satisfy  any  one  about  her  position,  yet  uncertain  whether, 
after  all,  she  had  said  the  right  thing. 

Miss  Plumey's  mind,  absorbing  the  high  lights  of  this 
explanation,  raced  about  like  a  little  boat  tossed  by  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  157 

waves.  She  was  taken  by  surprise  and  this  sensation  pre 
vented  her  from  realizing  the  full  importance  of  what 
she  had  heard.  She  might  have  likened  her  experience  to 
having  a  door  opened  and  shut  in  her  face  with  bewildering 
rapidity ;  her  eyes  caught  a  glimpse,  that  was  all. 

While  she  searched  for  a  careful  phrase  she  remembered 
the  night  Cleve  had  come  late  to  the  dance — a  night  when 
it  had  rained.  Not  even  Rose  Dupagny  had  brought  him 
early  and  this  was  why.  The  obscure  Christy  girl  had  a 
claim  that  transcended  other  claims  and  for  this  he  had 
neglected  Rose  who  believed  him  to  be  in  love  with  her. 

Her  mind,  performing  gymnastics,  recalled  the  refusal  of 
Rose  to  return  safely  in  the  Plumey  carriage  after  Willetta 
Porter's  desertion.  Then  later  had  come  the  disgraceful 
scene  made  by  Laurence  Dupagny,  which  was  known  to 
every  one  next  day,  and  Rose,  after  all,  had  risked  broken 
bones  by  going  back  with  Cleve  in  the  car  at  an  unearthly 
hour — Miss  Plumey  gasped.  So  much  had  been  going  on 
under  her  very  eyes. 

She  was  about  to  speak  when  there  came  a  confusion  of 
footsteps  and  voices  outside  and  Mrs.  Miller  from  behind 
the  curtain  exclaimed  in  flurried  amazement : 

"There  she  is  now — Miss  Antonia!  Such  a  sweet  girl 
.  .  .  and  as  I  live,  Peter  Withrow  is  with  her — Peter 
Withrow!  Ethel  Plumey,  what  does  this  mean?  He  is 
coming  in  with  her,  as  I  live — " 

There  was  no  time  for  a  reply.  Mrs.  Miller  and  her 
companion  had  only  just  retreated  from  the  hall  window 
when  Antonia  Christy,  calm  and  unhurried  in  her  move 
ments,  opened  the  door  and  entered,  closely  followed  by 
Peter,  who  gave  the  two  women  a  quizzical  glance  followed 
by  a  bow  that  recalled  his  father,  the  Colonel,  whose  man 
ners  had  been  the  talk  of  the  county  thirty  years  before. 


158  THE  THRESHOLD 

Antonia,  smiling  faintly,  led  the  way  to  the  red  rep  and 
walnut  parlor  shrouded  in  blackness — airless  and  disap 
proving  as  the  lowered  brows  of  a  world  which  she  did  not 
suspect  were  in  that  instant  turned  upon  her. 

Peter  entered  the  parlor  in  her  wake,  after  the  bow 
which  had  transformed  Mrs.  Miller  into  a  mere  figurehead. 
He  was  smiling  at  some  secret  thought  of  his  own,  but  when 
he  found  himself  alone  with  Antonia  this  smile  faded  and 
an  expression  of  deep  humility  replaced  it. 

"You  shouldn't  have  me  here,"  he  said  in  a  lo*w  voice 
that  only  she  could  hear,  as  though  he  knew  of  the  straining 
ears  outside  the  door  that  were  grasping  for  every  sound. 
"Let  me  go  now.  I  promise  anything  that  you  ask." 

Peter  had  been  drinking  again.  It  could  not  be  disguised, 
but  Antonia  did  not  shrink  from  him.  She  looked  into  his 
eyes  earnestly  as  though  he  were  a  little  boy  and  she  im 
measurably  older — a  deeply  understanding  look  that  took 
note  of  his  weaknesses  and  the  forgotten  promises  of  the 
past. 

"Go,  if  you  wish,  Peter,"  she  said,  standing  away  from 
the  door  so  that  he  could  pass.  "But  if  you  will  stay  with 
me  instead  of  going  away  alone,  it  will  make  me  very 
happy." 

For  answer  he  sat  down  in  one  of  the  stiff  red  rep 
chairs  and  slid  his  long  nervous  hands  across  his  eyes.  He 
wanted  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world  to  say  the 
things  that  their  position  forbade  him  to  say,  and  the 
cowardice  that  is  created  from  a  great  desire  was  a  factor 
in  his  silence.  He  knew  that  if  he  spoke  he  might  lose  the 
little  he  could  claim  of  her,  but  it  was  hard  to  take  her 
on  the  terms  she  innocently  offered.  Presently  he  said : 
"Why  should  you  bother  about  me?  I'm  not  worth  it.  If 


THE  THRESHOLD  159 

I  can't  keep  straight  myself  you  shouldn't  hurt  your  little 
hands  trying  to  help  me  along." 

She  spread  her  fingers,  white  and  supple  now,  against  the 
background  of  her  dark  serge  skirt  and  smiled  back  at  him. 
"They  are  not  little  hands,  Peter.  And  they'll  always  be 
ready  to  help  when  you  need  them.  But  you  mustn't  think 
I'm  wanting  you  more  for  your  sake  than  my  own.  Some 
times  I'm  very  lonely." 

He  understood  that.  He  was  lonely,  too.  They  stared 
at  each  other  without  speaking,  filled  with  an  overwhelming 
desire  to  say  to  one  another  the  simple  poignant  things 
which  were  in  their  hearts.  But  because  they  were  sitting  in 
the  red  rep  parlor  of  the  boarding-house  with  Mrs.  Miller 
just  outside  the  door,  this  was  impossible. 

Peter  said  absently:  "Harkness  used  to  live  here,  didn't 
he?"  and  Antonia  answered  gayly: 

"He  did.  Perhaps  it  is  Mrs.  Miller's  mission  in  life 
to  cradle  genius.  Tell  me,  Peter,  do  you  think  I  am  getting 
along  ?" 

He  looked  a  her  gloomily.  She  was  so  frail  and  yet  so 
invincible  sitting  there  before  him  that  it  was  amazing  to 
think  of  her  power.  But  he  felt  no  gratitude  for  her  gen 
erous  spirit  loaned  to  his  own  in  the  hour  of  its  eclipse. 
Manlike,  having  this,  he  wanted  more  and  was  tortured 
because  he  could  not  demand  everything  for  which  he  was 
longing. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  be  a  genius  ?  You  are  a  woman," 
he  said  brutally. 

She  flushed  slowly  but  her  eyes  met  his  unwaveringly. 
"That  is  not  like  you,  Peter!  This  is  why  I  asked  you  to 
come  with  me  to-day.  When  you  are — not  yourself — you 
say  things  that  are  so  cruel.  You  hurt  your  friends — 


160  THE  THRESHOLD 

every  one.  It  would  be  better  to  wound  their  bodies  than 
their  hearts." 

His  head  sunk.  "Why  do  you  bother  with  me,  Antonia  ?" 
he  said  wearily,  for  the  second  time.  "There's  a  dozen 
men  who  would  make  pretty  speeches  to  you  ;  yet  you  choose 
to  listen  to  me." 

"Because  I  care  so  much  for  you,  Peter,"  she  murmured 
with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "Who  has  been  so  good  to  me  ?" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  look  at  her.  "Antonia,  do  you  really 
care—" 

She  could  not  mistake  the  meaning  beyond  his  words  and 
she  was  struck  by  the  fear  that  this  might  lead  to  chaos. 
Instead  of  helping  him,  she  might  be  driving  him  further 
away.  Yet  what  could  she  say? 

But  he  read  the  indecision-  in  her  face  and  spared  her  a 
reply.  "I  know  you  don't,"  he  said  with  unexpected  gentle 
ness,  "but  if  I  can  be  your  friend  that  will  be  enough." 

"Oh,  please  understand,"  cried  Antonia  with  a  break 
in  her  voice,  "I  don't  want  any  of  these  things — they  are 
not  for  me.  I  never  cared  for  all  that  makes  the  lives  of 
other  girls — you  know,  Peter.  We  have  talked  it  over  a 
hundred  times.  .But  friendship — ah,  that  is  a  thing  worth 
while.  We  will  be  friends,  Peter,  all  of  our  days,  and 
sometime  when  we  are  old  you  will  come  to  me  and  say 
how  very  wise  we  have  been  to  keep  it  warm  and  secure 
when  there  have  been  shipwrecks  all  around  us." 

"What  a  cynic  you  are,  child,"  Peter  returned  with  a 
smile.  "Where  did  you  learn  to  doubt  the  fundamental 
law  ?  Not  in  your  own  home,  I  am  sure." 

"Yes,  I  learned  it  there,"  she  said  unexpectedly,  "from 
my  own  father  and  mother.  Why  should  life  be  so  unfair? 
My  mother  loves  and  suffers  through  her  children,  but  my 
father  suffers  only  through  his  thwarted  ambitions.  Even 


THE  THRESHOLD  161 

I  was  part  of  his  disappointment.     He  would  have  loved 
me  as  a  son." 

"He  loves  you  now,"  said  Peter  gently,  and  added  in  a 
tone  of  prophecy,  "you  will  know  that  when  love  comes 
to  you." 

Miss  Plumey  was  about  to  depart  in  a  daze.  Events, 
possibilities,  had  crowded  her  unfairly  in  the  last  half 
hour.  She  stepped  out  on  the  porch  and  Mrs.  Miller  fol 
lowed,  because  she,  too,  was  aghast  before  the  telepathic 
communication  of  the  other's  attitude.  She  even  accom 
panied  Miss  Plumey  down  a  part  of  the  five  steps,  whis 
pering  in  a  strained  monologue. 

"I  am  taken  out  of  my  wits.  I  don't  know  what  to  think. 
If  ever  there  was  a  nice  girl,  I  believed  Antonia  Christy 
was  one  .  .  .  but  there  must  have  been  something  behind 
the  way  her  pa  behaved.  Heavens  above !  Two  of  them ! 
And  bringing  Peter  Withrow  into  my  house  in  that  condi 
tion.  I  could  smell  the  liquor  as  he  passed  me  as  plain 
as  anything  I  ever  smelled." 

But  Miss  Plumey  only  heard  the  half  of  this.  Her  eyes 
and  ears  had  given  her  mind  the  clew  it  sought,  and  her 
thoughts  were  racing  far  beyond  Mrs.  Miller's  weak  surmise. 
"If  you  will  ask  Mrs.  Sneath  to  come  over  to  our  house 
to-morrow — "  she  murmured  vaguely,  "I'm  sure  mamma 
wouldn't  approve — she  is  so  careful  whom  I  meet — 
Good-by." 

Mrs.  Miller  was  left  to  gaze  speechlessly  after  Ethel 
Plumey  as  she  carried  the  reputation  of  her  house 
away  in  her  hands.  She  was  perfectly  aware  that  before 
night  the  news  would  flash  over  the  unseen  wires  of  the 
town  that  her  house  was  run  on  lax  principles,  but  Mrs. 
Miller  was  first  a  woman,  then  a  landlady,  and  her  bow 
was  human  as  Peter  Withrow  passed  her  on  his  way  out. 


162  THE  THRESHOLD 

Peter  drove  his  gray  car  to  another  county  and  back 
that  night,  but  he  did  not  get  drunk  as  he  had  intended  to 
do.  In  the  fierce  loneliness  of  the  night  hours  he  fought  the 
thing  out  and  conquered;  all  the  time  hating  the  weak  spirit 
that  made  the  fight  necessary.  For  a  long  time  he  had 
yielded  in  such  struggles  when  the  craving  came  upon  him, 
but  to-night  was  different.  If  Antonia  cared —  The  thought 
rushed  to  his  brain  like  a  swift  flame  and  then  was  quenched 
by  the  cold  light  of  reason.  She  did  not  care  as  he  wanted 
her  to  care. 

That  afternoon,  at  the  first  symptom  of  his  coming  down 
fall,  she  had  given  out  all  her  sweetness  and-  gentle  trust, 
and  the  strength  of  it  had  seized  upon  his  lagging  spirit 
and  drawn  it  upright  beside  her  own.  And  she  had  held  him 
there  until  he  could  stand  alone.  When  he  furned  the  car 
homeward,  long  past  midnight,  he  was  ashamed  and  humble, 
but  he  no  longer  lingered  on  the  thought  o'f  her  caring. 

The  night  -was  in  its  deepest  hours  when  he  stopped  the 
gray  car  before  the  Sheridan-  Building.  He'  knew  that  there 
would  be  no  sleep1  for  him'  that  night,  and  he  remembered 
some  papers  that  should  have  been  gone  into  that  day. 
Work  is  the  best  panacea  for  thought  and  he  had  had 
enough  of  thinking. 

It  was  'so  late  that  even  the  watchman,  believing  himself 
safe,  had  slipped  into  some  remote  corner  for  a  nap.  An 
atmosphere  of  stillness  that  was  almost  uncanny  hushed 
the  night,  nowhere  so  silent  as  between  high  walls  and 
paved  streets.  The  elevator,  had  ceased  running  long  ago 
and  Peter,  stepping  lightly,  was  halfway  up  the  first  flight 
of  stairs  when  he  met  the  woman. 

It  was  like  a  meeting  of  ghosts.  The  stairs  were  so  dimly 
lighted,  the  unexpected  presence  so  vague  and  elusive,  cling 
ing  to  the  wall  in  shadowy,  supplicating  fear,  that  it  was 


THE  THRESHOLD  163 

like  the  quick  shifting  of  a  dream,  gone  before  realiza 
tion.  .  .  . 

When  he  reached  his  own  door  he  saw;  that  there  was 
a  light  against  the  frosted  transom-  of  the  office  and  in  a 
moment  he  opened  the  door  and  confronted  Cleve  Harkness 
in  a  blue  velvet  housecoat,  smoking  a  cigarette  as  he  lounged 
in  an  office  chair. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  rather  blankly.  It 
was  not  their  custom  to  meet  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
on  this  common  ground,  and  both  were  at  a  loss  for  words 
to  reduce  the  situation  to  a  natural  footing.  But  Peter 
having  a  slight  advantage  was  first  to  speak. 

"You  did  not  expect  me,"  he  said  calmly,  advancing  into 
the  room  until  he  stood  directly  in  front  of  the  other. 

Cleve  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  amazement  which 
verged  upon  consternation.  His  habitual  air  of  boyish 
complacency  gave  way  to  something  like  confusion.  He 
fumbled  with  the  loose  papers  on  the  desk  before  him  and 
found  nothing  to  say. 

"I  thought  I  would  look  into  the  Norton  business,"  Peter 
went  on,  moving  over  to  his  own  quarters.  "Don't  let 
me  disturb  you.  Can't  sleep,  you  know.  .  .  .  Good  time  to 
read,  everything  still  as  a  grave,  thank  the  Lord." 

But  after  the  first  demoralizing  moment  Cleve  saw  that 
he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  Peter,  and  he  managed  to 
recover  his  self-possession.  He  gathered  the  papers  on  his 
desk  into  a  formless  mass  and  offered  them  to  his  partner 
with  an  indifferent  smile.  "I  was  looking  into  it  myself," 
he  said  easily.  "I  had  no  idea  you  were  interested." 

"I  am  interested  in  everything,"  Peter  returned.  "The 
unusual  always  excites  my  interest  to  fever  heat.  But  it 
does  seem  queer  that  you  and  I  who  are  so  widely  at  vari 
ance  on  most  points  would  be  agreed  upon  the  Nortons." 


164  THE  THRESHOLD 

Cleve  felt  himself  humiliated ;  he  knew  that  Peter  was 
laughing  at  him  and  secretly  enjoying  his  confusion,  or 
believed  that  he  was.  The  situation  was  worthy  of  some 
thing  better  than  this.  He  felt  the  need  to  insult  Peter,  since 
Peter  would  not  insult  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  drunk  again,"  he  said  with  a  sneer, 
"that  was  why  I  bothered." 

"Ah!"  said  Peter.  He  was  merely  contemptuous,  not 
angry.  He  spoke  in  the  tone  of  whimsical  satire  that  always 
maddened  the  younger  man.  "Antonia  would  not  let  me  get 
drunk.  She  took  me  home  with  her  to  that  boarding-house 
where  she  lives,  and  we  decided  that  there  were  things  in 
life  better  worth  while  than  time  wasting.  She  gave  me  a 
pretty  lecture  and  it  pulled  me  up  short.  Do  you  remember 
when  you  lived  in  that  house,  Harkness?  It  is  a  queer 
place  that  reminds  me  in  a  way  of  a  railway  station.  The 
people  who  come  there  only  stop  between  trains  to  pick  up 
food  and  sleep.  It  is  full  of  women  now,  all  earning  their 
living  with  pretty,  delicate  little  fingers — all  of  them  rushing 
hither  and  thither,  making  life  for  themselves.  It  made  me 
wonder  what  had  become  of  the  men  who  used  to  catch  all 
the  trains.  It  made  me  think — " 

Cleve  was  stung.  "You  allowed  Antonia  to  do  that — for 
you!"  he  exclaimed  violently.  "Do  you  want  to  ruin  her? 
Think  of  what  people  would  say  if  they  saw  her  trying 
to  reform  you — picking  you  up  on  the  verge  of  one  of 
your  lapses —  A  man  should  protect  a  woman  who  trusts 
him—" 

Their  eyes  met 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  rings  on  Rose's  fingers  were  growing  loose.  There 
were  three  diamonds  and  a  pigeon  blood  ruby — none  of 
them  large  stones  but  very  pure,  and  sometimes  when  she 
stood  at  the  window  that  commanded  the  street,  she  would 
twist  these  rings  about,  smiling  cynically  as  she  observed 
the  difference  in  the  size  of  her  fingers. 

Her  dressmaker  remarked  it  also.  "We'll  have  to  change 
all  your  measurements,  Mrs.  Dupagny,"  she  complained. 

Dupagny  noticed  nothing.  They  did  not  see  much  of  each 
other ;  business  was  bad  and  Dupagny's  time  had  become  a 
ceaseless  unrewarded  search  for  financial  backing  which 
would  see  him  over  these  dark  days.  His  feverish  optimism 
was  not  daunted,  nor  would  he  accept  the  warning  of  each 
failure.  He  could  not  see  that  his  race  was  nearly  run. 

When  he  could  do  so,  he  avoided  Rose,  but  from  a 
different  cause  than  that  which  sent  her  shrinking  from  his 
approach.  The  two  seldom  spoke  of  their  affairs,  plans,  or 
the  castle  building  which  had  once  been  their  pastime.  All 
this  had  vanished,  swept  away  before  an  oncoming  depres 
sion  that  left  no  foundation  for  visionary  hopes ;  and  this 
sad  tide,  coming  remorselessly  closer  day  by  day,  numbed 
their  senses  and  blinded  their  eyes  until  they  could  not  feel 
its  approach. 

The  house,  once  so  gay,  was  changed.  The  veranda  was 
no  longer  the  meeting  place  for  Rose's  friends,  and  its 
bright  cushions  vanished  before  the  dust  storms  and  sweep 
ing  winds  that  came  early  that  year.  All  the  verandas  up 

165 


166  THE  THRESHOLD 

and  down  Armitage  Street  were  equally  bare  except  for 
the  falling  leaves  that  escaped  the  housemaid's  broom,  but 
the  brightness  had  not  been  transferred  to  the  interior  of 
Rose's  home  as  in  the  others.  The  change  was  more  certain 
here  than  outside. 

Jessie  had  been  replaced  by  a  lazy,  good-natured  negress 
who  took  advantage  of  her  mistress'  preoccupation  and 
allowed  the  rooms  to  become  hopelessly  littered;  blighted 
by  that  miasmic  condition  which  marks  a  house  without  a 
heart. 

There  had  been  no  little  parties  or  teas  for  weeks.  Rose 
had  forgotten  or  had  ceased  to  care.  The  women  she  had 
once  sought  to  please,  the  forms  which  had  been  so  impor 
tant,  meant  nothing  to  her  any  longer.  The  vague  slipping 
away  of  all  customs  barely  touched  her.  When  she  thought 
of  it  at  all  she  promised  herself  that  to-morrow  she  would 
take  up  the  reins,  adjust  herself,  and  again  become  the 
leader  of  the  petty  little  play. 

But  she  never  did.  To-morrow  would  find  her  gazing 
unseeingly  from  the  window,  twisting  the  rings  on  her 
fingers,  listening  for  the  telephone. 

Dupagny  found  her  like  this  one  day  when,  contrary  to 
his  habit,  he  came  in  at  lunch  time.  He  scowled  suddenly, 
aware  of  the  chill,  inhospitable  atmosphere  of  the  room; 
the  dust  motes  circling  in  a  ray  of  sunshine;  Rose,  herself, 
in  a  morning  negligee.  He  gave  one  look  at  all  this  and 
his  gloomy  eyes  returned  to  her  indifferent  face. 

"A  nice  sort  of  home  to  come  back  to,"  he  snarled.  He 
had  been  out  of  town  on  one  of  his  frequent  excursions  to 
other  sources  of  revenue  and  the  alteration  in  the  house 
and  in  Rose  struck  him  with  renewed  force,  following  as  it 
did  a  series'  of  disappointments,  bitter  and  unprofitable.  As 
he  looked  at  her  his  glance  kindled  with  the  anger  that 


THE  THRESHOLD  167 

at  last  finds  a  subject  to  feed  upon.  She  recognized  this 
and  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders. 

"Why  return?"  she  questioned  wearily. 

"By  God  .  .  .  the  time  will  come  when  I'll  not  return. 
.  .  .  You'll  send  for  me  and  I'll  not  answer.  .  .  .  You 
can't  keep  this  up.  No!" 

His  voice  was  inarticulate.  She  was  startled  by  the  pas 
sion  he  betrayed  and  this  captured  her  straying  attention. 
She  saw  that  she  must  win  him  from  this  mood  which 
threatened  to  interfere  with  her  own,  for  she  shrank  with 
nervous  dread  from  the  jangling  discords  of  a  domestic 
quarrel.  She  played  the  card  that  is  always  in  a  woman's 
hands.  "If  you  gave  me  the  money  to  keep  the  place 
properly — " 

She  had  him  there.  He  stammered — "I've  always  given 
you  everything  I  could — " 

She  was  not  listening.  She  wished  that  he  would  go 
and  not  stand  there  arguing,  regretting  what  would  not  come 
again.  Suppose  the  telephone  rang  while  he  was  in  the 
room !  It  would  be  like  him  to  listen,  to  insist  on  knowing 
who  called.  And  the  instrument  was  just  outside  the  door 
where  every  word  could  be  overheard.  She  grew  feverishly 
anxious ;  certain  that  something  disastrous  would  happen 
before  he  left  the  house.  Fear  gave  a  strange  touch  of 
asperity  to  her  soft  voice. 

"What  do  you  want,  Larry?  Are  you  tired  from  your 
trip?  Shall  I  have  Emily  give  you  some  luncheon?" 

He  sat  down  heavily.  Now  that  she  focused  her  attention 
upon  him  she  saw  how  desperate  he  wyas,  how  pale  and 
distraught.  He  struggled  not  to  meet  her  eyes.  In  spite  of 
the  chill  in  the  room  there  was  a  faint  gleam  of  perspira 
tion  upon  his  forehead  and  he  passed  his  handkerchief  over 
his  face  repeatedly. 


168  THE  THRESHOLD 

"It  has  come  to  this,  Rose.  I  must  have  some  money. 
...  I  couldn't  get  a  dollar  in  Evanston  .  .  .  everybody 
is  tightening  up,  or  rushing  away  to  spend  their  money  in 
the  big  towns.  .  .  .  My  deals  are  too  small  to  attract 
them.  ...  If  I  could  get  to  New  York  with  something 
good — but  before  that  I've  got  to  have  a  little  real  money 
to  tide  over — " 

She  felt  a  queer  sense  of  relief,  as  if  he  had  given  her  a 
word  of  commendation  when  she  had  expected  blame.  She 
saw  his  wavering  glance  come  to  rest  upon  her  hands  as 
the  shaft  of  sunlight  that  was  the  home  of  the  dancing 
motes  sent  a  flash  of  fire  from  the  jewels  on  her  fingers. 
At  least  she  could  help  a  little.  The  instinct  of  giving 
where  she  had  defrauded  lightened  her  spirit  to  a  flash  of 
spurious  gayety.  She  drew  the  loose,  glittering  rings  off 
one  by  one ;  now  she  knew  why  she  had  been  twisting  them 
so  long.  She  dropped  them  into  Dupagny's  hand. 

"They  will  bring  something.     Perhaps  in  a  little  while — " 

"Your  rings!  My  God,  Rose,  I  haven't  come  to  that 
yet.  .  .  ."  He  protested  against  the  sacrifice  fiercely,  though 
he  had  come  home  for  that  very  purpose,  driven  by  the 
inexorable,  shameful  need  of  money  for  the  little  things  of 
every  day — those  unnecessary,  unwanted  things  that  obtrude 
themselves  at  every  turn.  "I  can't  take  your  rings,  Rose," 
he  said  huskily. 

But  these  were  only  empty  words  and  it  ended,  as  they 
both  knew  it  would,  in  Dupagny  dropping  the  jewels  into  a 
little  unused  pocket  with  an  elaborate  air  of  unconcern,  as 
though  they  were  baubles  of  small  worth.  He  explained 
with  rising  spirits  that  their  disappearance  would  be  a  mere 
matter  of  a  few  days. 

"This  puts  you  in  line  with  all  the  other  society  women," 
he  said,  attempting  jocularity.  "And  you're  a  good  sport, 


THE  THRESHOLD  169 

Rose,  in  spite  of  everything.  Some  day  I'll  hang  you  with 
diamonds  like  a  rajah's  bride." 

She  heard  him  in  silence,  feeling  only  contempt  for  his 
shallow  relief.  The  rings  ha-d  been  her  mother's — she  might 
never  see  them-  again.  "Perhaps  you  had  better  go,"  she 
said  coldly,  "Emily  is  always  cross  at  an  unexpected 
luncheon." 

Her  coldness  quenched  his  faint  elation.  Now  that  the 
trivial  but  burning  need  had  been  met,  his  mind  turned  to 
other  matters  less  important  and  more  familiar.  He  noticed 
her  abstraction,  the  enforced  patience  with  which  she 
listened  to  him,  so  plainly  longing  for  him  to  go. 

"Why  are  you  at  home  to-day?"  he  asked  with  new 
born  suspicion.  "It's  rather  unexpected,  finding  you  in  on 
a  day  like  this — and  unusual." 

She  glanced  at  the  world  outside  her  window.  She  had 
not  known  the  sort  of  day  it  was ;  to  cover  her  thoughts  she 
made  the  trite  excuse,  "I  haven't  anything  to  wear — 
nothing  new.  Every  one  is  getting  their  autumn  clothes." 

During  their  life  together  he  had  heard  that  a  thousand 
times.  Clothes — clothes — clothes.  He  had  been  trained 
to  sympathize  with  this  need  as  all  husbands  are  trained, 
and  her  complaint  never  failed  to  arouse  his  masculine  in 
stinct  of  protection. 

"Don't  worry,  little  girl,"  he  soothed  in  the  tone  she 
knew  so  well.  "One  of  these  days  we'll  show  this  town 
what  it  means  to  spend  money — "  With  the  rings  in  his 
pocket  he  was  anxious  to  get  away,  yet,  drawn  by  some 
unaccountable  instinct  created  from  her  strange  depression, 
he  lingered.  "By  the  way,"  he  said  with  an  abrupt  change 
of  tone,  "I  heard  a  bit  of  news  to-day — about  a  friend  of 
yours — young  Harkness." 

All  her  self-control  could  not  subdue  her  start  of  alarm, 


170  THE  THRESHOLD 

and  he  noted  this  with  a  leaping  flame-  of  jealousy.  The 
mention  of  Cleve's  name  had  been  purely  involuntary,  but 
now  he  believed  that  he  had  struck  the  note  of  her  mood. 
She  flushed  and  turned  pale,  trying  to  conceal  her  agita 
tion.  It  was  as  though  he  had  reached  into  her  heart  with 
an  unerring  touch  and  found  the  name  that  was  always 
present  in  her  thoughts.  He  paused,  watching  her  suspense 
curiously.  "Not  entirely  about  him,"  he  went  on,  slowly, 
"but  his  father — old  Saul  Harkness.  The  old  man  is  about 
to  pass  out,  I  believe,  and  somebody  hinted  to  me  that  he'd 
been  putting  by  a  penny  or  two  all  these  years.  I  suppose 
he'll  leave  his  money,  if  he  has  any,  to  a  home  for  dogs." 

"But  could  he  do  that?"  she  asked,  moistening  her  lips. 
"Could  he  really  disinherit — his  son — if  he  had  anything  to 
leave?" 

Dupagny  laughed  rather  oddly  as  he  turned  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  no.  His  son  would  undoubtedly  inherit — if  there 
is  anything.  I  will  be  interested  in  watching  developments. 
.  .  .  Let  me  congratulate  you,  my  dear,  on  your  fore- 
sightedness  in  making  friends.  Without  your  backing  it 
would  be  rather  difficult  for  me  to  approach  the  young  heir — 
if  he  is  one.  All  that  money  lying  hidden  for  years  should 
be  put  to  work  at  once."  He  saw  her  shiver.  "It  does 
sound  rather  cold-blooded,  but  we're  living  in  a  cold 
blooded  age.  You  have  to  fight  for  what  you  want,  whether 
it's  money  or  a  woman.  Don't  try  to  look  shocked,  Rose. 
You  know  that  if  Cleve  Harkness  gets  a  lot  of  money  he'll 
probably  forget  every  friend  he  has — if  they  let  him. 
You've  seen  it  done  more  than  once." 

"You  are  very  cynical,"  she  forced  herself  to  say. 

"Not  cynical;  merely  sensible.  He's  that  sort.  He's  used 
everybody  he  could  for  stepping  stones — some  day  he'll  use 
the  town  itself — especially  if  he  gets  the  money.  He  started 


THE  THRESHOLD  171 

out  to  climb  to  success  on  other  men's  shoulders.  .  .  ." 
He  smiled  dryly,  knowing  that  he  had  punished  her.  "But 
you  like  him — I  should  do  the  same." 

He  was  gone  at  last  and  she  flew  to  the  telephone.  She 
was  choking  with  impatience  and  it  was  impossible  to  wait 
in  the  hope  that  he  would  call  later.  Sometimes  he  did  not 
call  for  a  day  or  two  and  now  she  remembered  this  as  an 
omen.  He  was  overly  cautious  on  her.  account  and  she 
never  called  his  number  without  the  chilling  anticipation 
of  his  displeasure,  but  Laurence  Dupagny's  words  had 
macle  a  profound  impression  on  her  because  she  sensed  be 
neath  them  a  vestige  of  truth  she  could  not  deny.  ...  It 
was  as  though  he  put  into  words  a  tiny  fear  that  had  long 
lain  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  poisoning  her  happiest 
moments.  .  .  . 

When  Cleve's  voice  came  to  her  over  the  wire  she  could 
hardly  speak.  With  her  ringless  fingers  she  kneaded  her 
throat,  loosening  the  muscles  that  contracted  at  his  first 
word. 

But  she  left  the  instrument  gayly  exuberant  as  she 
always  Avas  after  a  few  words  with  him.  His  voice  was 
always  the  same,  tenderly  caressing,  secretly  pleading, 
worshipful. 

Emily  followed  her  to  her  room  where  she  was  searching 
rapidly  through  drawers  and  closets,  assembling  a  toilette  for 
the  street.  The  colored  girl  adored  and  admired  her  mistress 
in  the  same  way  that  her  race  loves  all  that  is  colorful  and 
exotic.  Her  interest  took  the  form  of  maternal  scolding. 

"Yoah  ain'  goin'  out  without  a  little  bite  of  somethin'. 
.  .  .  Now  don't  you  act  like  that,  Mis'  Dupagny.  Don' 
throw  them  looks  at  me.  You  can't  stand  up  against  that 
wind  without  a  morsel  since  mornin'.  .  .  ." 

Emily  was  not  Jessie  by  a  wide  margin,  but  she  fastened 


172  THE  THRESHOLD 

her  mistress's  frock  and  laced  her  high  boots  creditably. 
Rose  was  plainly  dressed  in  a  dark  blue  serge  walking  suit 
with  a  bit  of  fur  about  her  neck,  although  it  was  still 
summer.  She  wore  a  thick  dotted  veil  through  which  her 
beautiful  eager  face  shone  like  a  cameo.  In  the  mirror  she 
saw  the  maid  watching  her  with  speculation  lurking  behind 
her  admiration. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  she  hurried  through  the  side 
streets,  avoiding  houses  she  knew,  turning  her  face  away 
when  she  met  cars  or  people.  Once  a  limousine  freighted 
with  laughing,  pretty  women  in  afternoon  frocks  whirled 
around  a  corner  and  she  found  herself  facing  a  half  dozen 
faces  she  knew  too  well.  But  they  did  not  see  her,  being 
intent  upon  their  own  affairs,  and  she  did  not  have  to  explain 
why  she  was  lurking  there  in  a  dark,  stuffy  frock  with  fur 
about  her  neck  and  a  thick  veil,  while  the  rest  of  her  world 
laughed  in  chiffon. 

On  one  of  the  shabby  streets  that  branched  away  from 
Christy  Square  with  all  its  new  splendors,  the  Iris  Theater 
was  squeezed  miserably  between  an  automobile  repair  shop 
and  a  basket  grocery,  both  spilling  their  wares  upon  its 
threshold,  crowding  its  poor,  gaudy  three  sheets  with  adver 
tisements  of  somebody's  tires  and  the  price  of  potatoes.  The 
dingy  girl  at  the  wicket  gave  Rose  a  ticket  and  she  passed 
in  behind  two  arguing  women  who  detained  her  for  an 
endless  minute  outside  the  brownish  green  curtain  that 
screened  the  aisle.  At  that  houp  the  place  was  nearly 
empty,  and  she  slipped  into  an  obscure  seat  to  gaze  unseeing 
at  the  beginning  of  what  was  meant  from  the  very  first 
to  be  the  tragic  history  of  love  diverted  from  sane  and 
normal  paths  into  an  impassable  labyrinth  of  adventure  and 
intrigue. 

Cleve  was  late  and  she  put  her  handbag  on  the  next  seat 


THE  THRESHOLD  173 

to  hold  it  for  him  although  there  was  a  wilderness  of  vacant 
chairs  on  every  side.  When  her  eyes  became  accustomed 
to  the  gloom  she  picked  out  couples  here  and  there,  usually 
in  the  side  rows  along  the  musty  walls,  sitting  close  together 
with  hunched  shoulders,  whispering  indistinguishably. 
These  were  lovers  who,  having  no  right  to  meet  each  other 
in  the  light  of  day,  had  discovered  this  corner  where  they 
might  gaze  at  each  other  unmolested.  It  was  the  little  hour 
of  their  day  when  they  could  be  together — sometimes  it  was 
at  the  beginning  of  their  story  and  sometimes  at  the  end. 
When  the  droning  mechanical  piano  ceased  for  a  moment, 
their  whispering  became  audible  like  the  wings  of  trapped 
insects  seeking  escape.  Invariably  the  attitude  of  these 
couples  was  the  same;  the  woman  sat  a  little  forward  in 
her  chair,  her  face  drooping  anxiously,  and  the  man  leaned 
toward  her  with  his  lips  almost  touching  her  cheek,  their 
secret  interchange  of  words  proceeding  without  pause 
through  the  endless  repertoire  of  the  mechanical  piano, 
through  the  intermissions,  the  beginning  and  end  of  films. 

A  bulky  man  stumbling  in  the  darkness  forced  his  way 
along  the  row  of  chairs  and  tried  to  sit  beside  Rose.  She 
almost  shrieked  aloud,  her  nostrils  assailed  by  the  odor  of 
his  clothing  and  his  coarse  body  so  near  her  own.  She 
put  her  hand  against  his  arm  and  pushed  desperately.  There 
was  no  aisle  on  the  other  side  and  if  he  had  taken  the  chair 
she  would  have  been  forced  to  escape  by  climbing  past  his 
knees. 

He  stared  at  her  stupidly,  not  understanding  her  panic; 
she  could  see  the  reddish  square  of  his  surprised  face. 

"This  seat  is  taken — taken — "  she  gasped.  "There  are  so 
many  others — "  He  slouched  sheepishly  away. 

Cleve  came  at  last.  With  the  realization  of  his  presence 
her  nervous  fear  and  distaste  fled.  She  was  ashamed  and 


174  THE  THRESHOLD 

almost  sorry  for  her  rudeness  to  the  wretched  man  who 
had  blundered  into  her  presence.  The  sordid,  musty  odorous 
place  became  touched  with  romance;  its  walls  shut  in  love 
and  a  thousand  little  secret  happinesses.  She  breathed  deeply 
of  enchanted  air  as  his  fingers  closed  over  hers. 

He  discovered  the  absence  of  her  rings  at  once.  "What 
have  you  done  with  them?" 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  anything  from  him.  She  hated 
herself  for  disloyalty  while  she  hurried  to  explain.  She 
told  him  that  Dupagny  needed  a  little  money — she  had 
given  him  the  rings  for  a  few  days ;  every  one  was  hard  up 
at  times.  It  was  nothing  to  be  serious  about ;  people  bought 
diamonds  for  the  sole  reason  of  having  collateral  at  hand 
when  they  needed  it  quickly.  While  she  whispered  this, 
trying  to  excuse  the  husband  whom  she  betrayed,  she  felt 
herself  upon  false  ground.  The  situation  was  slipping  out 
of  her  hands.  For  a  long  time  she  had  sensed  that  with 
every  confidence  given  to  Cleve  she  gained  a  little  less  of 
his.  She  brought  her  explanation  to  a  close  haltingly — an 
awkward  close — feeling  intensely  her  disadvantage,  and 
Cleve  said  with  righteous  disgust: 

"What  a  rotter  the  fellow  must  be  to  take  your  rings !" 

"He's  been  decent  to  me — as  decent  as  he  could,"  she 
defended. 

They  were  on  the  verge  of  a  quarrel  in  the  moment  of 
their  meeting,  and  with  Laurence  Dupagny  as  the  object 
of  the  disagreement.  Realizing  this,  they  stopped  short  and 
looked  at  each  other,  lettting  the  passion  that  united  them 
come  into  its  own  once  more. 

"Tell  me  why  you  wanted  to  see  me  to-day  ?"  Cleve  asked, 
pressing  her  slim,  bare  fingers. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  ask  her  that.  One  of  those  instan 
taneous  adjustments  had  taken  place  in  her  mind  at  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  175 

moment  of  this  quarrel,  and  she  knew  that  she  would  never 
tell  him  what  she  had  heard  from  her  husband  that  day. 
If  it  were  true  he  would  know  in  time,  and  the  future  would 
happily  arrange  itself.  She  gave  an  evasive  answer  to  his 
question. 

"Why — I  was  lonely.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing 
ahead'  for  us.  He  is  staying  home  so  much  of  late." 

"And  you  are  not  going  out  as  you  did,"  said  Cleve  sud 
denly,  startling  her  as  Dupagny  had  done,  earlier  in  the  day. 
"There  are  half  a  dozen  parties  this  afternoon — "  His 
tone  added,  "Why  are  you  here?" 

There  had  been  no  invitations  for  her  that  day.  Instinct 
warned  her  to  hide  this  fact  from  him,  though  she  disdained 
its  triviality.  There  were  a  dozen  reasons  why  she  might 
have  been  left  out — nobody  owed  her  anything,  for  she 
had  not  entertained  in  many  weeks.  She  made  these  excuses 
in  her  own  mind,  knowing  all  the  time  the  fact  of  making 
them  proved  she  was  lost. 

"Parties  bore  me,"  she  said  at  last,  vaguely. 

As  though  he  sensed  some  reserve  in  her  he  went  on 
persistently.  "Are  you  going  to  the  Tysons  to-night?  It 
was  unwise  to  come  to  this  place  when  we  might  meet  there 
in  a  few  hours." 

She  lied  quickly  but  ineffectually.  "I  don't  think  I'll  be 
there.  Larry  has  an  engagement  and  I  hate  going  about 
alone." 

He  turned  to  look  at  her  searchingly.  In  the  gloom  the 
white  outline  of  his  face  hardened.  Its  softness  was  lost 
and  with  that  its  charm ;  a  faint  cruelty  became  an  apparent 
warning. 

"Were  you  asked?     Have  the  Tysons  cut  you?" 

The  baldness  of  this  made  her  gasp.  She  summoned 
her  pride,  trying  to  be  angry  and  disdainful. 


176  THE  THRESHOLD 

"You  know  that  is  not  true.  She  would  not  dare.  But 
we  were  never  friends — why  should  she  ask  me  to  every 
thing  she  has?" 

They  were  almost  quarreling  again.  A  little  while  ago 
it  had  been  enough  to  be  silently  near  each  other. 

After  this  dull  silence  fell  between  them.  Rose,  gazing 
emptily  at  the  flickering  screen,  found  herself  following  the 
foolish  story  pictured  there.  Some  one  was  in  mimic  anguish 
— an  impossible  woman  who  wept  carefully  without  dis 
torting  her  face;  a  fool  whose  difficulties  might  have  been 
adjusted  by  a  word.  But  some  fantastic  similarity  in  the 
story  held  her — the  theme  was  a  thousand  years  old — the 
woman  loved  and  the  man  forgot.  She  was  always  trying 
to  win  him  back  and  he  was  as  hard  as  stone. 

"It's  glorious  seeing  you  for  a  stolen  hour  like  this.  I 
wish  we  never  needed  to  part,"  whispered  Cleve,  trying  to 
recapture  the  thrill  that  had  left  his  voice. 

"If — something  should  happen — "  she  whispered  back 
dreamily,  "If  a  magical  good  fortune  smoothed  every 
thing  for  us — if  one  of  us  should  be  rich — would  you  be 
happy  ?" 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  questioned  sharply. 

She  had  a  quick  change  of  mood.  "I  heard  an  absurd 
thing  about  you  the  other  day,"  laughing  half  hysterically. 
"Almost  a  scandal.  You  should  never  lecture  me  after 
this — that  girl  in  your  office — " 

"Well— what  of  her?" 

"Oh,  that  interests  you!  Well,  there  is  a  story  going 
around  about  her.  She  left  her  home,  didn't  she?  Quar 
reled  with  her  father.  And  when  she  had  to  find  another 
place  to  stay,  you  took  her  to  some  friends,  of  yours?" 

"Rose !  What  infernal  thing  is  this  you  are  trying  to  say? 
Antonia  Christy —  Good  God!  We  have  no  right  to 


THE  THRESHOLD  177 

mehtion  her  name — in  such  a  place  as.  this !  Don't  say  that 
again.  There  is  nothing  to  such  a  story — nothing!  I  have 
known  her  all  my  life."  He  was  breathing  fast.  It  was 
plain  that  there  was  more  than  a  hot  denial  on  his  lips 
and  that  he  fought  against  such  utterance. 

"You  have  known  her  always,  and  now  when  she  is  in 
difficulties  she  turns  to  you — I  see.  But  you  have  never 
mentioned  her  to  me.  I  have  heard  that  she  is  very  beau 
tiful.  .  .  ." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  intense  impatience,  but  she  was  too 
far  gone  in  jealousy  and  unhappiness  to  recognize  this.  She 
knew  that  she  was  all  wrong  and  that  the  quarrel  which 
had  been  just  below  the  surface  of  their  thin  self-control 
might  break  into  an  open  rupture  at  any  of  her  ill  considered 
words ;  but  she  could  not  be  silent.  She  felt  as  if  a  hand, 
irresistible  and  malicious,  were  pushing  her  further  and 
further  into  the  breach. 

"You  have  spoken  of  this  before,"  said  Cleve,  trying  to 
be  calm.  "Why  do  you  refer  to  it  again?  I  have  told 
you  that  there  is  nothing  in  it." 

"Then  why  have  you  never  told  me  the  pretty  story  of 
your  chivalry  ?"  she  demanded,  with  quivering  lips. 

A  memory  came  creeping  back  to  him  like  red  fires  gone 
nearly  gray.  A  night  of  rain,  a  long  ride  with  Rose's 
slender,  warm  body  pressed  against  his  side.  Why  should 
the  recollection  thrill  while  her  presence  left  him  unmoved? 
It  was  easier  to  think  of  Antonia,  sane  and  sweet,  saying 
good-night  from  Airs.  Miller's  porch — but  his  mind  had 
held  this  image  remote  and  pale  beyond  that  night  of  flaming 
splendor ! 

"I  had  forgotten."  he  said  in  a  wearied  tone. 

On  the  screen  before  their  inattentive  eyes  the  figurines 
were  approaching  the  end  of  their  tragedy.  The  fool,  unable 


178  THE  THRESHOLD 

to  recapture  the  thing  she  had  lost,  developed  frenzy.  She 
was  about  to  die.  With  wild  eyes  set  in  the  mask  of  her  cari 
catured  face  she  hunted  in  a  drawer  and  found  what  she 
sought. 

"She  is  going  to  kill  herself — she  has  found  a  pistol  in 
the  drawer,"  scoffed  Rose,  grimacing.  She  was  about  to  rise 
when  he  restrained  her.  His  attention  had  been  caught  by 
the  climax. 

"No — you  will  see!"  he  predicted  with  his  boyish  laugh. 

He  was  right.  The  film  spun  off  in  dreary  anticlimax  and 
inanity.  Nothing  like  that  could  ever  happen.  .  .  .  Life 
was  like  that — always  finding  excuses  for  going  on,  com 
promising. 

Rose  got  up  to  go.  He  made  a  pretense  of  keeping 
her  longer.  "When  will  I  see  you  again?" 

"I  cannot  say.  We  shouldn't  make  plans — you'  said  so 
yourself — " 

"Well,  then — you  will  call  me,  won't  you,  dear?" 

She  left  before  him,  choosing  a  moment  when  the  dreary 
trickle  of  exits  was  thickest.  Outside  the  late  afternoon 
sun  was  shining  fiercely  and  the  sudden  glare  gave  her  an 
excuse  for  the  tears  that  rushed  to  her  eyes.  She-  had  not 
said  half  she  meant  to  say.  The  time  was  so  short.  He 
was  not  in  earnest  when  he  asked  her  to  stay  longer. 

The  fur  about  her  neck  was  suffocating,  but  she  was 
safely  away  from  this  place.  At  the  corner  she  stopped 
before  a  hardware  store  where  rows  and  rows  of  cooking 
utensils  were  strung  on  a  wire.  She  pushed  the  furs  aside 
and  priced  these  articles  with  a  bargaining  air. 

Dupagny  reached  the  house  shortly  after  Rose's  arrival. 
From  behind  her  locked  door  she  heard  him  moving  about 
in  his  own  room,  shaving,  dressing,  whistling.  He  seemed 
carefree,  now  that  he  had  possession  of  her  jewelry. 


THE  THRESHOLD  179 

At  dinner  she  would  barely  look  at  him  and  his  confidence 
evaporated  under  her  coldness. 

"I'm  glad  we  didn't  go  to  the  Tysons  to-night,"  he  said, 
"it's  good  to  be  alone  oace  in  awhile." 

Was  she  never  to  hear  the  last  of  the  Tysons  and  their 
stupid  parties?  Cleve  was  there;  she  knew  he  would  go 
if  only  to  cover  her  absence.  They  would  give  him  the 
prettiest  woman  in  the  room  for  a  supper  partner. 

"Tyson  has  been  pretty  cool  to  me  lately,"  mused  Du- 
pagny,  refusing  to  let  the  subject  alone.  "Have  you  and 
the  missus  had  a  row?  It  might  have  been  better  to 
accept.  The  Tysons  are  a  power  i".  this  town,  you  know." 

"She  didn't  send  me  a  card,"  explained  Rose  with  dry 
lips.  She  had  to  say  the  truth ;  it  gave  her  a  certain  satis 
faction,  as  though  in  some  way  the  curtain  of  deceit  that 
covered  her  was  lifted  a  little.  She  looked  at  him  coolly, 
enjoying  his  consternation. 

"No  !  What — what — !"  she  had  a  disagreeable  conscious 
ness  of  his  wide  eyes  and  hanging  mouth. 

"No,  they  didn't  ask  us !  Nina  calls  us  'hangers-on.' 

They  know  we  are  frauds frauds ."  She  stood  up 

violently ;  a  coffee  cup  was  overturned,  the  cloth  pulled 
awry. 

He  did  not  follow  her  upstairs  and  she  was  thankful 
for  that.  There  had  been  enough  of  uarreling  for  one 
day.  She  was  mentally  exhausted ;  more  words  would  have 
found  her  without  a  reply.  It  was  a  relief  to  lie  inertly 
on  her  bed  watching  with  half-closed  eyes  through  the  lacy 
branches  of  the  trees  outside  her  window  the  dust  of  stars 
coming  out — 

Late  in  the  night  Dupagny  returned.  She  heard  his  steps 
coming  up  the  walk,  dragging  steps;  the  faint  click  of  his 
latch-key,  then  his  progress  upstairs.  He  paused  before 


180  THE  THRESHOLD 

her  door  as  she  knew  he  would,  turning  the  baffling  knob 
softly.  She  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow.  The  door  was 
safely  locked.  For  a  long  time  it  had  been  locked. 

She  would  not  listen  or  she  could  have  heard  him  whis 
pering  her  name.  Presently  he  turned  away  and  in  his 
muffled  footsteps  there  was  something  mutely  pleading — 
entreating,  like  a  voice  to  which  no  answer  is  given.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  news  of  old  Saul's  death  held  the  interest  of  the 
town.  Ir.  life  he  had  been  as  unimportant  as  one  of 
the  springless  chairs  rocking  sadly  in  the  wind  on  the  side 
walk  before  his  door,  but  in  death  he  became  important. 
People  were  excited  over  the  problem  of  whether  he  had 
left  behind  him  sixty  or  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  nearer  the  lesser  sum,  but  by 
the  time  the  truth  was  known  other  events  had  taken  the 
edge  from  speculation.  Cleve,  as  the  heir,  occupied  the 
public  eye  as  he  had  never  done  in  the  character  of  hero. 
The  war  hysteria  was  dying  down  and  the  sight  of  khaki  no 
longer  brought  tears  or  heart  throbs ;  it  was  an  achievement 
to  turn  this  dying  interest  into  feverish  curiosity. 

As  Cleve  himself  assimilated  the  astonishing  news,  he 
weighed  all  these  advantages  and  measured  the  easy  heights 
so  amazingly  raised  before  him,  while  he  maintained  a 
proper  air  of  regret  and  decorous  grief.  He  was  too  subtle 
to  pretend  actual  sorrow,  which  he  knew  no  one  expected 
him  to  feel,  but  he  was  lavish  in  the  statement  that  if  he 
had  known  of  the  miser's  fortune  in  time,  he  would  have 
conquered  the  penuriousness  which  made  it  possible. 

The  money  was  in  Wickersham  and  Frye's  hands, — they 
had  known  all  along,  it  seemed.  When  he  was  alone  and 
could  give  vent  to  the  mingled  chagrin  and  triumph  of  his 
mood,  Cleve  was  humiliated  to  think  that  without  doubt  he 
owed  his  early  success  to  his  secret  future.  His  wounded 

181 


182  THE  THRESHOLD 

self-esteem  recalled  even  Bessie  and  her  ardent  pursuit  of 
his  youth.  Perhaps  she  knew,  and  it  was  old  Saul's  fortune 
that  she  coveted  instead  of  his  heart. 

But  this  phase  of  self-disillusionment  was  soon  mitigated 
by  the  possession  of  the  actual  money  and  in  time  the  only 
result  was  an  impalpable  hardening  of  his  nature,  struck 
in  its  vulnerable  point.  If  they  had  accepted  him  once  for 
an  unknown  benefit,  they  should  give  him  openly  in  the 
future  what  his  brains,  with  the  lever  of  money,  could  ex 
tract. 

He  was  not  offended  by  the  instantaneous  change  in  his 
position  which  occurred  with  the  announcement  of  his  heri 
tage.  He  was  not  sensitive  and  to  his  code  it  was  perfectly 
fair  that  his  value  increased  with  his  possessions.  This  was 
a  law  the  justice  of  which  he  could  recognize  and  admit, 
and  the  only  emotion  he  felt  was  annoyance  at  his  own 
credulity  that  had  taken  for  granted  the  popularity  which 
belonged  solely  to  youth  and  a  pair  of  good  dancing  legs. 
He  saw  clearly  now  that  in  a  little  while  this  popularity, 
founded  upon  nothing  tangible,  must  have  waned.  Failure, 
ignominy  would  have  resulted.  He  was  able  to  be  glad  that 
fate  had  caught  him  in  time.  Reversing  the  usual  pro 
cedure,  the  money  put  a  check  upon  his  headlong  descent 
into  insignificance. 

He  had  always  been  popular  with  women  and  his  changed 
condition  merely  increased  this,  but  he  saw  with  cynical  in 
difference  the  vast  readjustment  of  his  status  before  his  own 
sex.  Their  faintly  contemptuous  attitude  altered  to  a  visible 
respect.  They  had  belittled  his  standing  with  their  wives 
and  daughters,  but  now  they  admired  the  qualities  that  won 
the  praise  of  their  women.  Bankers  invited  him  to  lunch 
and  old  Saul  was  spoken  of  everywhere  -as  a  "collector." 

One  of  the  first  changes  considered  by  the  newly  rich 


THE  THRESHOLD  183 

young  man  was  the  dissolution  of  his  partnership  with 
Peter;  much  as  personal  inclination  urged  this,  instinct 
warned  against  it  and  in  the  end  instinct  prevailed.  In 
spite  of  the  Harkness  money  he  was  Cleve  Harkness  still, 
and  Peter  was  a  Withrow,  with  ten  times  as  many  dollars. 
In  disposing  of  this  thought  he  was  not  prepared  for  the 
advent  of  Peter  with  the  identical  suggestion  on  his  own 
part. 

"We  might  manage  to  straighten  up  all  that  we  have  on 
hand  by  the  first  of  the  year,"  Peter  argued ;  "no  use  pulling 
in  double  harness  when  it  don't  fit,  my  boy.  We'll  never 
learn  each  other's  ways,  d'ye  think  ?" 

Cleve  knew  then  that  from  the  first  Peter  had  wanted 
be  free  of  their  bond,  but  his  poverty  had  prevented  the 
utterance  of  this  wish.  He  did  not  underrate  the  other's 
generosity  in  remaining  silent  under  the  goad  of  a  tie 
which  irked  them  both ;  he  merely  thought  Peter  rather  a 
fool  to  think  of  some  one  else  before  himself.  Had  their 
positions  been  reversed  there  would  have  been  no  partnership 
in  the  beginning,  but  now  he  gave  an  injured  consent  to 
the  suggestion ;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  But  when  he 
spoke  to  Antania  of  the  matter  he  wore  an  aggrieved  and 
defrauded  air  which  appealed  instantly  to  her  sympathies, 
as  it  would  have  done  to  any  woman. 

"I  suppose  I'll  never  see  you  when  Withrow  and  I 
separate,"  he  complained.  "You  never  have  time  to  speak 
to  me  now ;  I  actually  see  less  of  you  than  when  you  lived 
at  home,  Antonia." 

This  was  true.  For  weeks  their  intercourse  had  been 
confined  to  nods  and  murmured  good-mornings.  Sometimes 
even  these  were  missing,  when  her  head  was  bent  over  her 
work,  or  when  he  passed  her  desk  preoccupied  and  remote. 
Reminded  of  their  barren  friendship  Antonia  blushed  with 


184  THE  THRESHOLD 

painful  remembrance.  There  had  been  no  time  when  he 
was  near  that  she  did  not  feel  his  presence ;  her  absorption 
was  a  poor  makeshift  if  he  had  cared  enough  to  seek  be 
neath  the  shell  of  her  pretense.  But  she  had  known  for  a 
long  time  that  their  little  romance,  brief  and  delicate  as  a 
sigh,  existed  only  for  her,  in  the  rare  times  she  allowed  her 
self  for  retrospection.  Aloud  she  said: 

"Major  Bailey  is  coming  in  with  Peter.  I  suppose  I 
shall  be  very  busy  then." 

Cleve  permitted  himself  a  slight  sneer.  "Bailey?  So  he 
will  be  here  to  order  you  around  ?  Are  you  still  in  love  with 
a  profession,  Antonia,  or  are  you  ready  to  admit  that  it  is 
not  enough?" 

He  was  in  an  ugly  mood.  His  pride  was  wounded  by 
Peter's  defection  and  he  suddenly  regretted  that  he  had  ac 
cepted  dismissal  so  weakly.  This  news  opened  up  a  fresh 
train  of  thought.  Bailey  was  a  safely  married  man,  the 
respectable,  august  father  of  half  a  dozen  young  Baileys. 
He  had  searched  for  some  reason  for  Peter's  sudden  resolu 
tion,  aside  from  their  constant  warfare  and  here  it  was. 
His  place  in  the  firm  was  to  be  filled  with  a  man  whose  pres 
ence  could  never  touch  Antonia.  Could  it  be  that  Peter 
wished  to  seclude  her  from  contact  with  himself  ? 

"Look  here,"  he  said  in  a  dictatorial  tone,  "has  that  fellow 
been  making  love  to  you?" 

Antonia  trembled.  She  should  have  been  indignant,  but 
her  emotion  could  not  be  called  indignation  or  anything  of 
that  nature.  It  was  too  ridiculous  to  say  that  she  was  happy 
but  it  is  certain  that  his  manner  thrilled  her. 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  in  that  way,"  she  said  un 
steadily,  and  tried  to  look  at  him  with  coldness  that  turned 
into  a  burning  blush. 

As  Cleve  returned  this  look  a  thought  dazzled  him.     He 


THE  THRESHOLD  185 

had  forgotten  Antonia  for  a  long  time  and  with  her  their 
childish  romance  that  had  been  too  fleeting  to  know  by  such 
a  name,  but  when  he  saw  the  color  in  her  face,  this  recollec 
tion  returned  like  a  story  read  and  forgotten.  He  remem 
bered  their  meetings,  always  by  chance  and  yet  predestined ; 
the  dusky  spring  nights  when  she  had  fluttered  across  his 
path  like  a  white  moth.  As  a  sleeper  grasps  at  bits  of  reality, 
he  tried  to  recover  moments  they  had  spent  together,  but 
in  the  kaleidoscopic  months  that  intervened,  all  sequence 
was  lost.  But  one  f  aot  presented  itself  with  startling  clarity, 
— for  Peter  to  plan  his  removal  from  contact  with  Antonia 
presupposed  one  certain  condition ;  Peter  must  be  in  love 
with  her  himself. 

Vistas  of  possibilities  opened  before  this  thought.  Peter's 
interest  in"  Antdnia ;  his  championship  when  she  wanted  to 
study  law, — the  whole  story  was  plain.  He  found  himself, 
when  alone,  cursing  Peter  with  unexpected  bitterness. 
"Damn  him,  he  isn't  fit  to  speak  to  her, — the  drunken 
brute !" 

He  had  a  hundred  important  matters  to  think  of,  but  all 
these  were  postponed  while  he  thought  about  Antonia.  She 
had  suddenly  assumed  new  and  precious  virtues  in  his  eyes. 
He  had  always  known  they  were  there,  but  like  hidden 
jewels,  meant  only  for  his  eyes.  He  was  bewildered  to  find 
another  man  searching  for  them  and  grasping  them.  And 
he  hated  Peter  for  other  reasons  than  this. 

He  almost  planned  to  go  to  Antonia's  father  with  the 
story.  Peter  wanted  him  out  of  the  way, — Peter  planned  to 
be  alone  with  Antonia !  But  better  judgment  forced  him  to 
part  reluctantly  with  this  plan.  Its  crudity  and  foundation 
of  mere  suspicion  made  it  untenable.  Old  Christy  would 
demolish  it  with  a  word.  Not  even  his  swiftly  evolving 
jealousy  could  send  him  on  such  a  mission  without  better 


186  THE  THRESHOLD 

arms.  In  a  few  hours  he  overreached  months  of  indiffer 
ence, — constituting  himself  Antonia's  guardian  and  protec 
tor.  He  believed  her  to  be  totally  unconscious  of  the 
machinations  attributed  to  Peter.  He  was  honest  in  his  con 
viction  that  harm  or  at  least  an  unwise  influence  was  hover 
ing  over  her,  such  as  only  he  could  see  and  forestall.  His 
own  thoughts  of  her  were  idealistically  high  and  noble ;  he 
alone  appreciated  her  purity  and  simplicity. 

The  recollection  of  Rose's  insinuation  filled  him  with 
anger  and  distaste.  To  him  it  was  fabrication, — no  one 
could  seriously  connect  Antonia  Christy  with  anything  less 
than  honor  and  probity.  He  forgot  that  he  himself  had 
already  built  up  a  melodrama  with  Peter  as  villain. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  his  father's  death  Cleve  saw 
Rose  only  a  few  times.  With  the  romantic  aura  of  money 
left  behind  him,  old  Saul  could  not  be  ignored,  and  his  heir 
was  debarred  from  society  except  in  so  far  as  chance  en 
counters  in  tearooms  and  discreetly  sympathetic  chats  over 
the  telephone  or  brief  single  calls  might  be  termed  social.  He 
did  not  meet  Rose  in  tearooms  any  more,  but  he  did  talk  to 
her  from  his  rooms, — always  in  the  tenderest  tones,  but  with 
an  annoyed  frown  she  could  not  witness. 

He  was  far  from  admitting,  even  to  that  secret  self  which 
was  his  treasured  counselor,  that  he  had  ceased  to  care  for 
Rose  or  that  their  romance  was  on  its  wane.  Other  matters 
had  crowded  his  mind  during  these  weeks  and  the  part  that 
was  concerned  with  Rose  remained  undisturbed.  She  still 
seemed  to  him  an  important  figure  in  their  world, — one 
whose  smile  and  favor  remained  desirable.  No  one  men 
tioned  her  name  to  him ;  he  was  too  preoccupied  to  note  the 
significance  of  this  omission. 

Gossip  concerning  the  Dupagnys  was  everywhere,  though 


THE  THRESHOLD  187 

it  did  not  penetrate  to  Cleve's  ears.  Laurence  Dupagny  was 
slipping  downhill.  lie  had  been  slipping  for  years,  but  now, 
suddenly,  every  sustaining  crevice  was  cruelly  removed 
from  his  clutching  fingers.  He  could  not  find  a  prop  any 
where.  For  years  he  had  been  performing  actively  in  a 
crowd,  deceiving  every  one  with  the  pretense  that  he  was 
one  of  them, — then  he  found  himself  alone  in  a  circle  of 
mocking  faces,  miserably  trying  to  stand  without  aid  and 
failing. 

Without  troubling  to  analyze  him  the  men  he  had  always 
counted  on  turned  uniformly  away.  They  knew  that  he 
had  lost  heart,  but  what  they  said  was  that  he  had  never 
been  a  safe  man, — too  optimistic,  too  impressionable.  They 
remembered  scores  of  schemes  he  had  fathered,  all  of  them 
quickly  burnt  out,  shallow,  insecure. 

People  who  had  been  a  little  flighty  with  the  handling  of 
unexpected  money  derived  from  war  speculation  became 
accustomed  to  it,  settled  into  harness  and  looked  around  for 
safe  investments.  Laurence  Dupagny  had  nothing  of  this 
character  to  offer, — everything  in  which  he  was  interested 
was  fantastic  and  extravagant ;  a  marsh  to  be  reclaimed  at 
immense  expense  was  more  attractive  to  him  than  legitimate 
tableland.  One  by  one  his  hopes  crumbled  to  dust. 

Cleve  Harkness  would  have  learned  of  this  long  before  he 
did,  had  he  been  a  visitor  to  the  house  on  Armitage  Street, 
but  this  had  been  given  up  in  the  early  stages  of  his  affair 
with  Rose.  Both  imagined  that  they  were  hoodwinking 
the  public  by  this  transparent  subterfuge.  In  reality  their 
careful  avoidance  of  each  other  lent  importance  to  the  most 
trivial  encounter  which  happened  to  be  witnessed  by  an  au 
dience  pretending  to  see  nothing. 

"My  dear,  they  meet  everywhere!"  whispered  little  Mrs. 


188  THE  THRESHOLD 

Porter,  who  had  been  Rose's  most  intimate  friend,  "like  ser 
vant  maids  and  policemen.  She  has  been  seen  in  the  most 
impossible  places." 

"My  maid  Jessie  who  lived  with  her  when  it  all  began 
says  that  the  telephoning  was  continuous, — every  morning, 
directly  her  poor  husband  left  the  house,"  Nina  Tyson  con 
tributed  in  her  deep,  disapproving  voice. 

The  town  was  talking,  but  the  full  weight  of  its  censure 
was  not  yet  laid  upon  Rose.  Could  she  have  recalled  a 
tithe  of  her  old  spirit  she  might  even  at  this  late  hour  have 
retrieved  the  situation,  restored  herself  to  the  easy  leader 
ship  of  these  stupid  women,  none  of  whom  possessed  the 
courage  to  do  battle  with  her  in  the  open ;  perhaps  she  might 
even  have  rehabilitated  Dupagny  and  saved  him  by  the  magic 
of  her  own  charm,  but  she  could  do  nothing.  Numbness  lay 
like  a  weight  upon  her ;  she  tore  her  mind  from  its  personal 
problems  with  difficulty;  the  world  was  slowly  going  to 
chaos  about  her  and  she  could  not  stay  its  destruction. 

Cleve  did  not  know  that  the  Dupagnys  were  no  longer 
asked  to  the  little  intimate  parties  at  the  club  or  in  certain 
houses,  but  Miss  Plumey  knew,  and  though  wisdom  re 
strained  her  from  open  intimacy  with  her  one  time  friend, 
malevolence  drove  her  to  secret  visits,  carefully  timed.  She 
knew  that  in  the  quarter  to  which  she  aspired,  this  would  be 
condoned  in  return  for  the  bits  of  news  she  could  be  able  to 
furnish  Rose's  detractors.  She  slipped  into  the  Dupagny 
yard  through  the  hedge  one  September  morning,  wrapped  in 
her  mother's  pink  knitted  shawl. 

"I  had  to  come  in  and  tell  you  about  the  tea  for  the  Mor- 
rell  girl,"  she  explained,  when  she  found  Rose  still  dawdling 
over  a  coffee  cup.  "The  decorations  were  beautiful,  but 
poor  Cecilia  couldn't  get  her  hands  white.  They  looked  like 
lobsters  among  the  cups."  She  paused, — after  all  her  heart 


THE  THRESHOLD  189 

was  not  wholly  bitter,  "Why  didn't  you  go  ?"  she  ventured, 
"Mrs.  Morrell  mentioned  you." 

Rose  shrugged.  She  was  wearing  a  lace  negligee,  a  little 
frayed  here  and  there ;  through  its  cobwebby  surface  her 
thinness  was  apparent. 

"What  would  they  have  talked  about  if  I  had  been  there?" 
she  murmured  with  a  swift,  disfiguring  sneer. 

Miss  Plumey  was  startled.  It  was  not  her  intention  to  be 
led  into  open  discussion  of  Rose's  unpopularity.  She  looked 
at  her  companion  reproachfully ;  the  remark  seemed  to  verge 
upon  indelicacy.  She  was  trying  to  show  sympathy,  but  it 
was  too  much  to  expect  partisanship  from  her.  Retreating 
slightly,  she  threw  the  onus  upon  Laurence  Dupagny. 

"Pappa  says  that  every  business  man  has  his  ups  and 
downs,"  she  said,  in  false  consolation.  "The  pursuit  of 
wealth  always  has  its  bitter  side,  but  you  shouldn't  give  up 
like  this,  Rose.  It  makes  people  think  that  matters  are 
worse  than  they  are." 

There  was  soundness  in  this,  but  Rose  could  not  explain 
why  she  had  ceased  to  care.  She  shook  her  head  sadly  but 
not  unkindly,  and  her  visitor  went  on,  approaching  the  sub 
ject  she  longed  to  explore. 

"You  won't  think  me  curious,  dear.  I  am  so  anxious  to 
see  you  do  well  and  be  happy  again, — and  I  was  wondering 
if  Peter  Withrow  ever  put  any  money  in  Mr.  Dupagny's  im 
provement  scheme." 

"Peter  Withrow!"  Rose  flushed  dully.  The  association 
of  the  name  with  her  thoughts  gave  her  a  guilty,  trapped 
feeling.  She  tried  to  speak  with  indifference.  "Peter? 
Oh,  no!  It  is  impossible  to  interest  Peter  in  anything. 
Laurence  soon  gave  up  trying  to  get  him  into  anything 
good." 

"Really?"  Miss  Plumey  exclaimed  acrimoniously.    "There 


190  THE  THRESHOLD 

are  some  things  he  is  interested  in, — tremendously.  That 
girl  in  his  office !  What  a  creature  she  must  be !  First  it 
was  Cleve  Harkness  and  now  it  is  poor  Mr.  Withrow. 
They  are  seen  together  openly.  He  even  goes  to  that  dread 
ful  boarding  house  where  she  lives, — I  saw  him  there  my 
self, — and  I  have  Mrs.  Miller's  word  that  he  was  drinking 
at  the  time." 

Rose  betrayed  a  flash  of  animation  impossible  to  conceal. 
This  was  the  same  informer  who  had  brought  her  the  story 
of  Cleve's  adventure  with  the  unknown  girl,  and  this  had 
been  at  the  foundation  of  many  of  their  half  quarrels  which 
gradually  grew  more  bitter  and  significant  as  their  meetings 
became  less  frequent.  How  foolish  she  had  been  if  this  was 
true!  She  was  ashamed  at  the  swift  relief  she  found  at  the 
substitution  of  Peter's  name. 

"She  must  be  a  charming  person,"  she  forced  herself  to 
say,  with  an  air  of  indifference. 

"One  of  those  dangerous,  quiet  girls,"  confided  Miss 
Plumey  in  a  low  voice,  as  though  she  feared  being  overheard 
in  a  matter  that  was  not  quite  delicate.  "I  knew  her  in  school 
years  ago.  Her  family  was  once  fearfully  important,  but 
of  course,  nobody  now  .  .  .  you  know  that  .  .  .  Peter 
Withrow  would  be  foolish  to  marry  her !  I  imagine  she 
soon  found  out  that  Cleve  Harkness  was  not  the  wedding 
ring  sort  .  .  .  though  you  never  can  tell.  Of  course  you 
have  heard  that  he  has  bought  the  Pendleton  place  ?" 

Rose  disguised  her  sudden  trembling  by  lifting  the  coffee 
cup  to  her  lips.  A  tide  of  swift  emotion  rushed  to  her  heart. 
"The  Pendleton  place?"  she  repeated  stupidly.  "Why 
should  he  buy  that?" 

Miss  Plumey  assumed  an  air  of  wisdom  subtly  freighted 
with  sympathetic  understanding.  She  now  had  the  conver- 


THE  THRESHOLD  191 

sational  ball  exactly  where  she  wanted  it  and,  thinking  over 
every  move,  she  began  to  play  warily. 

"Ah !  Because  he  couldn't  be  serious  with  a  girl  like  that 
doesn't  mean  that  he  won't  marry  somebody.  Pappa's  so 
up  on  politics  and  he  says  there  is  nothing  Cleve  Harkness 
couldn't  be,  now  that  he  has  money  to  back  him.  He  could 
go  to  Washington  in  time,  but  of  course  there  must  be  a 
beginning.  The  first  thing  is  to  become  a  citizen  with  a 
wife  and  a  home, — that  sort  of  thing — respectability. 
Pappa  says  that  Mr.  Wickersham  has  already  been  talking 
to  him  about  it, — sounding  him  out,  you  know.  They  need 
a  clever  young  man  to  represent  the  county.  The  very  first 
thing  was  getting  him  away  from  Peter  Withrow's  influence ! 
Pappa  says  Cleve  doesn't  have  to  be  told  anything  twice." 

"No?"  Rose  stood  up,  signifying  that  she  would  permit 
her  caller  to  go  without  protest.  She  was  physically  un 
able  to  hear  more,  though  she  longed  to  know  everything, 
all  the  lies,  the  innuendoes,  the  baseless  speculations ;  but 
measuring  her  strength  she  found  herself  unable  to  cope 
with  the  poisonous  venom  behind  Miss  Plumey's  smile. 
"Let  us  hope  that  he  will  find  some  charming  girl  to  share 
his  good  fortune,"  she  said  mechanically. 

Cleve  was  aware  of  the  interest  the  town  took  in  his  pur 
chase  of  the  old  Pendleton  place  and  this  added  to  his  satis 
faction  in  possessing  it.  One  of  the  first  dormant  longings 
that  sprang  to  life  after  the  acquisition  of  his  substantial 
wealth  was  the  desire  for  a  home  of  his  own.  Having 
known  only  cramped  quarters  during  most  of  his  life, 
his  thoughts  turned  naturally  to  the  farthest  extreme.  He 
wished  for  wide  spaces  and  lofty  ceilings ;  wanted  what  he 
had  never  had, — the  sensation  of  touching  elbows  with  a 
generation  which  had  never  suspected  his  existence. 


192  THE  THRESHOLD 

When  he  set  out  to  buy  his  house  he  might  have  had  any 
of  the  new  stucco  edifices  which  were  springing  up  all  over 
Cresston  for  half  the  money  of  his  actual  purchase,  but  the 
possession  of  the  old-fashioned  mansion,  associated  in  his 
child's  mind  with  the  palaces  of  kings,  had  a  charm  with 
which  no  newer  grandeur  could  compete.  There  was  no 
mystery  connected  with  its  purchase  as  his  audience  sup 
posed  ;  his  reason  for  buying  the  place  was  as  inexplicable 
to  himself  as  to  others.  It  was  probably  the  first  uncalcu- 
lated  act  of  his  life. 

Antonia  learned  the  news  with  glowing  eyes. 

"Then  it  will  not  be  torn  down,  after  all!"  she  exclaimed 
eagerly.  "I  have  always  been  afraid  of  that.  The  new 
houses  on  Armitage  Street  have  barely  room  to  stand  on, 
poor  things,  and  the  Pendleton  house  seems  so  greedy.  Its 
wings  spread  over  two  big  lots." 

"I  expected  you  to  feel  like  that,"  Cleve  answered  grate 
fully.  "No,  I  shan't  pull  it  down.  There  is  something 
opulent  about  it, — something  magnificent  and  independent. 
A  man  living  between  its  walls  would  have  to  be  success 
ful.  The  house  would  accept  nothing  less.  I  shall  live 
there  and  see  what  it  will  do  for  me." 

Antonia  looked  thoughtful.  "Yet  the  Pendletons  were 
not  successful,  or  the  house  would  not  be  sold.  Living  in  it 
did  not  keep  them  from  going  downhill."  She  was  think 
ing  of  her  own  family  and  how  they  had  clung  to  greatness 
while  their  roof  crumbled  above  their  heads.  Somehow 
Cleve's  sophistry  sounded  childish  and  immature;  she  felt, 
as  she  often  did,  his  superior  in  age  and  wisdom.  He  was 
about  to  try  to  live  romance  behind  which  she  saw  the 
grisly  truths. 

But  Cleve  scoffed  at  retrospection.  "That's  because  they 
didn't  know  how  to  live.  They  kept  themselves  old,  like  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  193 

house,  and  humanity  is  the  one  thing  that  cannot  afford  to 
be  old-fashioned." 

It  was  late  afternoon  in  hazy  September.  The  day  had 
been  hot  and  still,  but  now  the  evening  was  coming  like  the 
calm  smile  of  a  wise  mother.  The  air  was  filled  with  peace, 
— the  restfulness  that  is  the  aftermath  of  brilliant  hours. 
In  the  golden  glow  that  was  no  longer  sunlight  Antonia's 
dark  hair  gleamed  like  a  crown.  Cleve's  hand  closed  the 
book,  where  her  gaze  had  been  following  the  printed  page 
without  grasping  a  meaning  from  its  abstruse  phrasing. 

"You  look  so  tired,"  he  said,  then  began  to  beg 
whimsically,  "come  with  me  to  see  my  house.  It  is  the  first 
house  I  have  ever  owned.  Let's  build  it  over  without  touch 
ing  a  shingle." 

She  put  on  her  hat  obediently  and  Cleve  locked  the  door 
as  they  passed  out.  The  last  time  they  had  walked  to 
gether  seemed  to  have  been  years  ago,  and  now  an  unac 
countable  tremor  shook  him  so  that  his  hand  trembled  on 
the  lock.  He  did  not  guess  that  Antonia  was  trembling,  too. 
There  was  a  sort  of  freedom  about  this  emotion  that  was 
strange  and  new.  If  people  met  them  walking  together  it 
did  not  matter.  He  felt  alone  with  Antonia  and  in  a  rush 
a  thousand  little  things  came  back  to  him,  bewildering  with 
familiarity.  When  they  were  children  they  used  to  have 
long  serious  talks  together  upon  unchildlike  subjects,  walk 
ing  along  dusty  roads  outside  the  town.  This  walk  sud 
denly  reminded  him  in  an  overwhelming  way  of  those  days 
when  it  had  been  customary  to  consult  Antonia  about  every 
thing.  It  became  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  be 
going  to  see  his  new  house  in  her  company. 

Like  all  the  important  places  in  Cresston,  the  Pendleton 
house  was  on  Armitage  Street  only  a  few  blocks  from  the 
Square, — much  too  close  to  the  business  district  to  please 


194  THE  THRESHOLD 

those  fastidious  persons  to  whom  the  sight  and  sounds  of 
commerce  are  distasteful.  When  the  house  was  new  it  had 
been  the  center  of  an  estate,  now  it  was  only  a  large,  square, 
pale  brown  stone  mansion,  crowded  uncomfortably  by  smart 
bungalows  and  stylish  colonials ;  protected  by  its  wide  elms 
and  ancient  rose  trellises,  it  retreated  in  dignified  seclusion 
from  all  encroachment  of  the  newcomers.  The  Pendletons 
had  sold  their  lots  one  by  one  and  when  such  sacrifice  would 
no  longer  stem  the  rush  of  disaster  they  sold  the  house.  In 
the  lonely  dignity  of  its  proud,  shuttered  windows,  turned 
emptily  to  the  street,  there  was  a  reminder  of  the  humility 
that  belongs  to  the  very  old  who  must  dwell  among 
strangers. 

As  the  two  young  people  turned  in  at  the  gate,  the 
house  seemed  to  welcome  them.  In  spite  of  their  youth 
they  could  remember  its  past.  The  failing  afternoon  sun 
touched  the  frowning  facade  with  a  faint  radiance  and  the 
old  house  seemed  to  say,  "Come,  my  children,  my  roof  will 
cover  you." 

Antonia,  standing  on  the  broad  flagged  walk  where  the 
grass  had  pushed  its  way  through  every  crevice,  looked  up 
at  the  sightless  windows  and  read  this  message,  but  to  Cleve 
the  sunlight  on  the  brown  face  of  the  house  meant  nothing. 
In  the  time-stained  shingles  he  saw  only  a  record  of  Pendle- 
ton  improvidence. 

The  garden,  small  as  it  now  was,  had  become  a  place  of 
impenetrable  depths.  It  was  impossible  to  explore  more 
than  a  few  yards  without  coming  against  a  dense  green  wall, 
and  the  imagination  was  taxed  to  grasp  the  fact  of  the 
Tracy's  white  bungalow,  full  of  children  and  dogs,  crowd 
ing  against  the  wall  from  the  other  side.  The  place  was  a 
riot  of  old-fashioned  rose  bushes  left  untrimmed  for  years 
and  sending  out  from  their  dying  trunks  long  green  creepers 


THE  THRESHOLD  195 

to  trail  through  the  heavy  headed  grass,  where  here  and 
there  a  gorgeous  bloom,  child  of  old  age,  glowed  like  a 
perfect  jewel  set  in  decay.  Under  the  trees  it  was  dusk, 
blue  and  fragrant,  and  somehow  harboring  a  suggestion 
of  the  oying  year  that  had  crept  in  here  to  linger  in  waiting 
for  the  shortening  of  the  autumn  days. 

"We  can't  explore  very  far  until  some  of  these  old  trees 
and  shrubs  are  cut  away,"  said  Cleve,  looking  dubiously  at 
his  white  flannel  trousers. 

"Not  the  trees, — oh,  no !"  Antonia  pleaded. 

He  laughed.  "Oh,  well,  then.  .  .  .  You  are  like  your 
father  after  all,  Antonia.  You  will  never  be  thoroughly 
modern  while  you  love  an  old  tree." 

They  laughed  over  this,  and  Cleve  found  the  house  key 
on  his  ring  as  they  went  up  the  stone  steps  that  were  worn 
into  faintly  hollowed  grooves.  As  the  double  doors  swung 
back  and  they  stepped  across  the  threshold  they  turned  in 
stinctively  toward  each  other.  In  the  fleeting  glance  that 
passed  between  them  there  was  the  first  warning  of  the 
rushing  tide  that  was  to  come, — as  the  light  picks  out  the 
dazzling  white  of  an  incoming  wave  upon  the  blue  breast 
of  the  sea. 

Then  it  was  gone  and  they  turned  to  the  faded  walls  of 
the  old  house, — its  dusty,  echoing  floors,  the  cavernous 
depths  that  yawned  from  above  where  the  ancient  carved 
and  winding  balustrade  of  another  day  blindly  pointed. 

Antonia  stood  in  the  hall  as  she  had  stood  outside  on  the 
flags,  looking  about  at  emptiness  that  to  her  was  peopled 
with  countless  forms  and  voices.  "Where  have  they  gone  ?" 
she  thought. 

The  Pendletons  in  their  flight  had  abandoned  a  few 
remnants  of  furniture  and  these  had  been  moved  into  the 
long  drawing-room  where  they  were  left  in  awkward  atti- 


190  THE  THRESHOLD 

tudes,  like  helpless  people  congregated  unhappily  together. 
But  the  echoing  floors  were  bare,  except  for  the  dust  that 
covered  them  like  a  gray  veil,  and  the  tall,  dim  mirrors, 
set  in  panels  of  dull  flecked  gold  between  taller  windows, 
seemed  to  multiply  these  piteous  cast-offs  until  the  room  in 
bare,  mocking  grandeur,  resembled  a  fallen  king  dressed  in 
a  mendicant's  shirt. 

Cleve  made  Antonia  sit  in  a  green  painted  kitchen  chair. 

"It's  a  good  house  yet,"  he  said,  with  a  calculating  look 
at  the  dim  frescoes  high  above.  "Paint,  new  furniture,  and 
those  old  shutters  taken  away  and  burned,  will  make  all  the 
difference  between  a  home  and  the  morgue.  It's  a  better 
investment  than  any  new  place  run  up  in  a  hurry  by  highly 
paid  labor,  anxious  to  be  on  with  the  next  job."  He  laughed 
triumphantly.  He  felt  himself  to  be  cleverer  than  other 
home  makers  who  had  passed  over  the  old  Pendleton  house 
with  its  indestructible  heart  in  favor  of  glistening  new 
structures. 

But  Antonia  did  not  laugh  with  him.  While  acknowledg 
ing  that  he  was  right  she  felt  the  disillusionment  of  his  in 
tention.  It  was  as  though  a  frail  old  book  was  to  be  put  into 
a  garish  art  nouveau  cover.  But  she  said  nothing.  Little 
by  little  the  strong  virile  sweep  of  the  living  man's  presence 
dominated  the  formless  atmosphere  of  the  past  and  the 
spirit  that  had  welcomed  her  there  lost  shape  and  being. 
Through  Cleve's  eyes  she  saw  the  dust,  the  need  for  paint, 
the  sweep  of  light  and  air  that  would  recapture  youth  for 
the  old  house. 

They  were  sitting  side  by  side  now.  The  green  wooden 
chair  had  been  exchanged  for  a  garden  bench,  oddly  in 
congruous  furniture  for  the  dignified  room.  The  heavy 
shutters  clamped  everlastingly  let  in  so  little  light  that  night 


THE  THRESHOLD  197 

seemed  almost  upon  them.  Cleve  had  taken  off  his  hat  and 
his  ruffled  hair  absorbed  what  little  brightness  was  there. 
He  looked  young  and  boyish, — for  a  moment  he  had  slipped 
back  into  the  youth  which  he  had  barely  tasted  in  his  haste 
to  accomplish  manhood.  Antonia  felt  an  impulse  to  touch 
him  caressingly  as  she  might  have  clone  years  ago  when  they 
were  children.  But  though  she  restrained  this  he  must  have 
read  something  of  it  in  her  eyes  for  he  leaned  closer  to  her 
saying  eagerly : 

"What  is  it,  Antonia?  You  want  to  say  something  to 
me." 

She  laughed ;  the  spell  was  broken.  "No,  no,"  she  pro 
tested  in  slight  confusion,  "I  was  only  wondering — what  will 
you  do  with  this  great  house  on  your  hands  ?  How  can  you 
live  here  alone?" 

From  another  woman  this  would  have  been  a  direct  chal 
lenge,  and  his  answer,  adept  and  evasive,  would  have  closed 
the  door  upon  the  delicate  thing  that  was  growing  so  swiftly 
between  them.  But  in  her  eyes  lifted  to  his  face  there  was 
nothing  but  limpid  questioning;  a  complete  obliteration  of 
self  as  a  factor  of  his  future.  There  was  something  humble 
and  meek  in  the  way  she  stood  aside  from  him,  not  ventur 
ing  beyond  the  threshold  of  his  life,  and  Cleve  was  touched 
in  his  most  vulnerable  point  by  her  simple  acceptance  of  a 
minor  role  in  his  future. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  what  Antonia  had  meant  to  say, 
— the  words  formed  themselves  merely  as  a  cloak  to  cover 
the  intention  of  her  eyes,  but  to  Cleve  it  was  like  a  child's 
puzzle  over  which  his  hand  had  been  hovering  in  uncertainty 
for  a  long  while.  With  amazing  simplicity  the  answer 
spread  itself  before  his  eyes  and  he  knew  at  last  what  the 
thing  was  that  made  complete  happiness  and  which  until 


198  THE  THRESHOLD 

now  had  eluded  him  persistently  through  his  successes. 
This  was  what  he  had  builded  for,  and  what  the  unmeasured 
dreams  of  his  heart  stood  for, — to  sit  beside  Antonia  in 
this  bare,  dusty  old  house,  peopling  it  with  a  thousand 
fancies,  new  and  strange  and  inconceivably  sweet.  All  the 
time,  the  wasted  time,  he  had  forgotten  her.  she  had  lain 
sleeping  in  his  heart,  waiting  to  clainr  her  own.  Other 
images  which  had  banished  her  were  banished  in  turn ;  he 
saw  only  this  path  to  which  other  paths  had  been  tributary, 
giving  their  tiny  importance  to  the  most  tremendous  im 
portance  of  all. 

He  had  no  words  to  tell  her  all  this.  It  seemed  that  she 
must  know  without  the  poor  medium  of  speech  and  know  it 
in  a  fuller,  broader  sense  than  words  could  clothe.  .  .  .  He 
lifted  her  chin,  cupping  it  gently  in  his  closed  fingers  and 
turned  her  face  upward. 

She  met  his  eyes  with  her  own  dark  gaze,  sweetly  serious 
but  untroubled.  She,  too,  knew  suddenly  that  this  had  been 
waiting  for  them  a  long  time, — that  the  uncertainties  and 
doubts  had  been  only  preparation  and  a  part  of  the  veil  that 
hides  the  inscrutable  future.  All  of  her  hopes  and  aims 
dwindled  to  tenuous  dreams  before  this  force  that  was  so 
strong  and  so  old,  like  the  motive  power  of  a  thousand  lives 
that  had  existed  before  this  one.  She  felt  no  regret,  no 
shame  in  the  sudden  abandonment  in  a  look,  of  the  principles 
she  had  set  upon  an  altar  and  worshiped  falsely.  Her 
dreams  had  all  been  pretty  lies  and  this  was  reality. 

And  after  they  had  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  reading 
the  answer  to  the  mystery,  now  so  simple,  they  leaned  to 
one  another  with  an  impulse  of  exquisite  tenderness,  giving 
each  to  the  other  the  measure  of  all  this  new  and  untried 
emotion  that  overwhelmed  their  hearts.  They  loved,  and 


THE  THRESHOLD  199 

with  such  love  there  is  no  time,  regret,  or  reproach.  To 
Antonia  with  her  lover's  first  kiss  upon  her  lips,  life  assumed 
a  meaning  remote  from  anything  that  she  had  dreamed  and 
she  looked  at  it  with  wonderment,  forgetting  like  a  child  the 
lessons  she  had  known  so  well  yesterday. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  a  town  like  Cresston  where  no  one  is  so  meek  or  lowly 
that  he  is  not  linked  to  the  highest  by  lines  that  are  in 
visible  but  complete,  it  is  impossible  for  scandal,  whether 
founded  upon  truth  or  surmise,  to  exist  without  its  tentacles 
touching  one  and  all  with  the  poison  of  its  existence. 

The  undercurrents  of  the  town  seethed  with  the  whis 
pered  innuendo  which  dares  not  name  and  therefore  damns 
more  conclusively.  The  germ  of  truth  behind  the  original 
statement  becomes  swollen  and  distorted  by  the  accumulated 
venom  it  was  asked  to  conceal.  Like  the  poisonous  adder 
it  turned  upon  the  hand  that  nurtured  it  and  friends  of  long 
standing  who  had  trusted  found  themselves  watching  each 
other  with  suspicion  and  malevolence.  And  though  this 
scandal,  frightful  as  its  imaginary  details  had  grown  to  be, 
concerned  those  to  whom  the  majority  of  the  babblers  were 
unknown,  it  was  this  class  that  kept  it  alive,  feeding  upon 
the  poor  defense  set  forth  by  those  who,  claiming  kinship 
with  the  unnamed  victims,  felt  called  to  champion  members 
of  their  group  even  while  condemning  among  themselves. 

Mrs.  Stevens,  whose  plum  jelly,  safely  stowed  upon  her 
pantry  shelves,  did  not  reconcile  her  to  money  paid  for  fruit 
which  had  been  a  cheerful  gift  to  others,  listened  to  a 
chapter  of  this  fragmentary  gossip  while  she  tried  on  fall 
hats  in  Irene's  Specialty  Shoppe  on  the  Square. 

"Thassay  it  has  about  ruined  Miss  Donnally,"  some  one 
was  saying  in  the  booth  next  to  the  one  where  Mrs.  Stevens 

200 


THE  THRESHOLD  201 

was  surveying  her  image  in  a  plum  colored  velvet  toque, 
"although  her  shop  is  downstairs  and  it's  only  shirtwaists 
and  neckwear,  really, — and  a  little  lonjeray.  People  are 
afraid  to  go  in.  Thassay  one  man  in  this  town  dared  his 
wife  to  cross  that  corner  of  the  Square.  He  threatened  to 
get  a  divorce  if  his  name  was  brought  into  it.  Poor  Miss 
Donnally,  she  has  my  sympathy." 

Hearing  this,  Mrs.  Stevens  lost  interest  in  the  toque  and 
other  toques.  She  was  not  an  experienced  shopper  and  she 
tried  desperately  to  remember  where  Miss  Donnally 's  shop 
was  located,  all  the  while  pretending  to  hesitate  between  two 
articles  of  headgear  that  meant  nothing  to  her.  Her  spirit 
was  fluttering  pleasurably,  conscious  of  being  on  the  verge 
of  a  discovery  which  had  cost  her  nothing.  Where  had  she 
seen  the  name  "Donnally"  or  heard  it  mentioned  ?  She  was 
acute  enough  to  know  that  there  was  a  connection  some 
where  between  her  mind  and  this  name  which  was  more 
important  than  the  mere  repetition  of  vague  stories  that 
might  be  entirely  without  interest  to  her  or  her  kind. 
Finally,  when  she  had  driven  her  rather  turgid  mind  to  ex 
treme  lengths,  she  remembered.  There  was  such  a  shop  in 
the  Sheridan  Building  on  the  first  floor.  She  recalled  the 
gilt  lettering  on  the  window  quite  plainly,  and  the  pink  silk 
chemise  thrown  carelessly  over  a  dark  purple  hassock,  in 
plain  view  of  all  the  gentlemen  whose  legitimate  business 
took  them  to  the  office  building. 

Women  of  Mrs.  Stevens'  sort  do  not  consider  such  shops 
seriously.  To  her  it  was  as  unnecessary  as  one  of  those 
places  in  inland  cities  which  sell  steamship  tickets  for  pas 
sages  around  the  world.  No  one  ever  saw  the  customers 
who  went  into  the  Donnally  shop,  just  as  trusting  ticket 
buyers  never  see  the  ocean  until  unbelievable  adventures 
have  befallen  them.  Mrs.  Stevens,  having  located  the 


202  THE  THRESHOLD 

scandal  of  which  she  had  not  been  unaware,  got  up  dizzily, 
forgetting  that  she  had  come  to  Irene's  to  buy  a  hat.  She 
was  only  anxious  to  get  away  and  made  some  mumbling 
excuse  to  the  person  whose  indignant  duty  it  was  to  put 
away  the  articles  she  had  been  examining.  She  was  not  in 
the  mood  for  a  hat  that  day  and  in  resisting  the  temptation  of 
Irene's  artful  mirrors  she  felt  as  though  in  some  obscure 
way  she  were  preserving  her  virtue. 

As  she  went  out  of  the  shop  she  noticed  that  in  certain 
ways  its  atmosphere  catered  to  what  was  careless  in  a 
woman's  moral  character,  and  she  resolved  to  confine  her 
self  strictly  to  department  stores  after  this,  for  Irene's,  in 
a  far  lesser  degree,  partook  of  the  delicate  suggestiveness  of 
Miss  Donnally  herself. 

Mrs.  Stevens'  back  was  stiff  as  she  walked  toward  home. 
She  had  always  known  that  such  places  as  Donnally's  con 
cealed  other  motives  than  their  wares,  and  she  told  herself 
that  she  was  not  surprised,  but  she  had  never  pictured  such 
possibilities  as  the  whispered  conversation  in  the  neighbor 
ing  booth  had  revealed  to  her  strained  ears.  In  the  midst 
of  her  enlightenment  she  recalled  the  bit  of  transparent 
pink  stuff  and  a  dull  flush  of  vicarious  shame  stained  her 
cheeks.  Her  uncontrollable  thoughts  transposed  it  to1  an  im 
pertinent  and  brazen  flag,  flaunting  the  secret  signal  of  some 
nameless  iniquity  sheltered  beyond  the  gilded  security  of 
the  window. 

She  had  heard  no  more  than  innuendo,  but  in  hearing  this 
had  learned  as  much  and  as  little  as  the  rest  of  the  world 
knew. 

And  this  scandal,  secret,  insidious  web  that  it  was,  reach 
ing  out,  touching,  and  forever  uniting  itself  by  faint  but 
unbreakable  cords  to  whatever  object  it  might  encounter, 
enmeshed  the  interest  and  the  sly,  malicious  thought  of  all 


THE  THRESHOLD  203 

those  persons  who,  certain  that  they  could  not  themselves 
suffer  from  exposure,  hoped  continuously  for  a  denouement. 

And  as  is  the  way  with  all  scandal,  those  most  concerned 
were  the  ones  who  heard  least  of  all  this;  some  of  them 
heard  nothing  at  all,  until  messengers  unwinged,  but  bearing 
resemblance  in  fantastic  ways  to  Mrs.  Stevens  and  her  ilk, 
brought  the  sorry  news,  real  and  imagined,  to  their  doors, 
beneath  the  guise  of  humble  friendship. 

As  she  unlatched  the  Christy's  gate,  Mrs.  Stevens  remem 
bered  with  justifiable  pride  that  the  hay  and  grain  busi 
ness  had  proven  itself  a  paying  one,  in  spite  of  the  irritating 
number  of  automobiles  on  the  streets.  She  compared  her 
self,  not  unfavorably,  with  the  family  she  was  about  to 
visit.  To  her  simple  mind  it  all  resolved  itself  into  words 
of  one  syllable.  Her  Joe  was  a  man  who  knew  when  he 
had  enough  of  anything.  If  he  failed  to  make  money  in  the 
poultry  commission  business,  he  dropped  it  like  hot  cakes, 
and  went  a  little  deeper ;  barley  and  oats  paid  if  broilers 
did  not.  All  as  easy  as  A  B  C,  and  the  children  were  grow 
ing  up  smart  and  well  dressed,  going  along  in  school  with 
the  best.  At  the  Christy's  the  palings  were  dropping  from 
their  fence  with  dry  rot, — their  daughter  was  a  nobody, 
leaving  home  like  a  common  girl  to  work  in  an  office,  and 
now  this  story  about  the  Donnally  woman's  shop ! 

"Being  a  mother  myself,"  she  finished  the  story  she  was 
recounting  to  Mrs.  Christy,  "I  knew  about  how  you'd  feel, 
having  your  daughter  going  into  such  a  place  every  day. 
I've  always  been  against  young  girls  living  out  and  away 
from  home,  and  I  always  will  be  against  it.  Thank  Heaven, 
nothing  like  that  can  ever  come  to  one  of  ours, — Joe  Stevens 
is  a  forehanded  man,  and  I  hope  to  see  both  my  girls  safe 
and  married  in  homes  of  their  own,  long  before  they're  as 
old  as  Antonia.  No  doubt  this  Miss  Donnally  has  a 


204  THE  THRESHOLD 

mother  somewhere  who'll  ache  when  the  truth  is  known." 

In  the  effort  to  assimilate  the  tangled  continuity  of  her 
visitor's  story,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  defend  herself 
from  a  secret  attack  to  which  she  was  without  clew,  Mrs. 
Christy  faltered  behind  the  valiant  front  she  presented  to 
the  newsbringer.  With  no  time  to  adjust  her  faculties,  she 
clutched  at  the  simplest  fact  in  the  arraignment. 

"And  what  has  my  Antonia  to  do  with  the  goings  on  of 
that  Donnally  woman?"  she  demanded,  meeting  Mrs. 
Stevens  squarely.  "She's  not  behind  a  counter,  thank  you, 
and  her  clothes  I  make  myself,  with  my  own  hands.  I 
can't  see  the  connection  at  all,"  and  to  prove  this  she 
laughed  light-heartedly,  as  though  Mrs.  Stevens  had  been 
jesting  and  she  had  discovered  this  in  time  to  rob  the  wit 
of  its  point. 

But  Mrs.  Stevens,  though  totally  unaware  of  it  herself, 
was  a  schemer  of  the  highest  order.  She  at  once  began  to 
explain  in  the  most  indulgent  manner  the  sordid  usages  of 
a  window  which  shamelessly  displayed  a  single  subtle  gar 
ment  devoted  to  a  certain  kind  of  woman, — not  of  their 
kind. 

"I  heard  it  with  my  own  ears,"  she  concluded  finally, 
"no  husband  who  has  heard  about  this,  allows  his  wife  to 
pass  the  Sheridan  Building,  even  in  daytime.  A  nice  place, 
I  should  say,  for  a  young  lady  who  respects  herself  to  be 
working,  thrown  in  daily  contact  with  such  creatures !" 

Both  ladies  were  approaching  heat  in  their  remarks,  but 
Mrs.  Christy  was  most  successful  in  maintaining  a  light 
attitude. 

"Nonsense!  What's  the  harm  in  one  little  chemise  when 
Loweribaum  has  his  windows  full  of  everything?"  she 
scoffed.  "I  do  hope  you're  not  so  narrow  as  that,  Mrs. 
Stevens,  and  thanks  very  much  for  being  interested  in 


THE  THRESHOLD  205 

Antonia's  welfare,  but  I'd  ask  you  to  remember  that  my 
daughter  is  both  a  Christy  and  a  Saltwell,  and  with  my 
four  sisters,  there  was  not  one  of  us  who  couldn't  walk 
barefoot  over  thorns  and  nettles  without  a  scratch  of  sus 
picion.  You're  very  good,  Mrs.  Stevens,  but  the  fact  of 
this  Donnally  woman  being  what  you  say  she  is,  cannot 
affect  my  daughter  in  any  way  that  I  can  see." 

The  engagement  was  over.  Mrs.  Stevens  was  defrauded 
of  her  sensation,  and  there  was  nothing  but  retreat  for  her. 
She  had  hoped  to  wipe  away  her  neighbor's  tears ;  but  her 
ministration  had  been  rejected.  There  might  have  been 
some  gratification  for  her  in  the  knowledge  that,  with  the 
first  opportunity  for  escape,  Mrs.  Christy  hurried  into  her 
things  and  went  scurrying  through  the  streets  to  Mrs. 
Miller's  boarding-house,  where  she  meant  to  wait  until 
Antonia  returned  even  if  her  household  schedule  was  thrown 
into  chaos. 

On  the  way  she  repeated  constantly  in  her  own  mind  the 
indictment  which  had  shown  itself  Medusa-like  behind  the 
false  condolence  in  the  other  woman's  eyes.  There  was 
nothing  in  it,  Mrs.  Christy  assured  herself  with  vehemence. 
She  had  not  passed  her  life  in  Cresston  without  knowing 
how  basel.ss  half  the  talk  really  was  that  came  to  life  and 
died  in  tlie  town's  millinery  shops,  but  she  knew  as  well, 
with  heart-freezing  conviction,  how  damning  was  the  power 
of  this  same  baseless  fabric  of  lies. 

Antonia  was  at  home,  though  it  was  much  earlier  than 
her  accustomed  hour  of  returning.  She  was  sitting  by  the 
window  that  looked  out  on  a  colorful  mass  of  maples  turn 
ing  hourly  to  unbelievable  golds  and  red  browns.  Her  long 
hands  were  folded  in  her  lap,  and  she  did  not  turn  her 
face  as  the  door  opened.  It  is  possible  that  she  heard  no 
sound.  But  when  her  mother  spoke  she  lifted  her  eyes  from 


206  THE  THRESHOLD 

their  contemplation  and  the  older  woman  had  the  impres 
sion  of  looking  into  wells  of  illimitable  depths  where  the 
darkness  captured  and  held  two  miraculous  fragments  of 
light  from  all  the  light  in  the  world. 

"What  is  it,  mother  ?"  Antonia  asked  presently  when  they 
had  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  and  it  seemed  necessary 
at  last  for  one  of  them  to  speak.  In  spite  of  her  abstraction 
she  spoke  in  an  awed  tone.  She  was  vaguely  apprehensive 
beneath  the  accusation  or  question  she  read  in  the  eyes  that 
searched  her  own. 

Mrs.  Christy  sat  down,  breathing  deeply.  She  had  al 
most  run  through  the  streets  to  reach  this  room,  but  now 
she  saw  how  foolish  she  had  been.  Nothing  was  changed 
or  altered ;  Antonia  was  the  same.  The  mother's  arms 
trembled  with  the  desire  to  clasp  her  daughter, — to  thank 
and  bless  her  for  some  unspeakable  reassurance, — to  prove 
to  herself,  by  the  mystery  of  contact,  that  the  child  she 
loved  was  still  her  own  as  she  had  been,  years  ago,  upon 
her  breast.  But  she  only  began  to  repeat  the  story  she  had 
heard  in  the  disconnected  phraseology  in  which  it  had  been 
told  to  her. 

Antonia  barely  listened;  it  could  be  seen  that  this  meant 
nothing  to  her.  When  it  was  over  she  only  said  dreamily : 

"Oh,  mother!  Who  do  you  think  has  bought  the  old 
Pendleton  place?  Cleve!  Cleve  Harkness.  He  is  going 
to  restore  it.  It  will  be  the  most  beautiful  house  in  Cress- 
ton." 

Mrs.  Christy  shuddered.  "I  shouldn't  want  to  be  there 
when  it  is  being  torn  down.  .  .  .  The  deaths  that  have  been 
under  that  roof !  And  with  old  Saul's  spirit  to  join  in, 
groaning  over  the  money  being  spent — " 

Antonia  was  obliged  to  laugh,  though  her  mind  failed  to 
follow  the  processes  of  her  mother's.  She  could  not  under- 


THE  THRESHOLD  207 

stand  the  rapid  transition  from  tragedy  to  mirth  that  made 
Mrs.  Christy  what  she  was,  and  now  her  merriment  was  of 
short  duration.  Without  warning,  her  eyes  blurred  over 
with  tears.  Emotion  fell  upon  her  features  like  a  delicate 
veil,  extinguishing  familiar  lines  and  altering  her  whole  face 
until  it  became  a  new  face  from  which  a  strange,  new  An- 
tonia  looked.  She  faltered;  "Oh,  mother!  I  am  glad  you 
are  here  !  I  am  so  happy — so  happy  !" 

"Antonia!"  Mrs.  Christy  sat  up,  electrified.  "What 
has  happened?  Tell  me — " 

"He  loves  me !"  said  Antonia  in  a  whisper. 
"Loves     you?     Who?     Tell     me — your     mother!     Has 
Peter  Withrow — " 

"Peter  ?     No.     Cleve— " 

Mrs.  Christy  was  dumb  only  for  a  moment.  "Do  you 
mean  that  Cleve  Harkness  has  proposed  ?  Are  you  engaged 
to  him?" 

"Engaged, — no.  He — he — loves  me,"  Antonia  repeated 
in  a  bewildered  tone.  She  was  bewildered  because  her 
mother  did  not  seem  to  understand  what  was  so  plain  to 
her.  Her  mother  could  not  grasp  the  miracle  of  her  hap 
piness,  and  because  it  was  so  rudely  handled  it  was  suddenly 
slipping  away.  She  began  to  awaken  like  a  sleeper  dis 
turbed  in  a  delicious  dream,  and  this  change  was  helped  by 
the  alteration  in  Mrs.  Christy's  face. 

"You  must  come  home  with  me,"  her  mother  said,  rising, 
with  an  intonation  of  command,  totally  unlike  her  usual 
voice.  She  continued,  with  growing  harshness,  "Come.  The 
place  for  you  is  under  your  father's  roof.  I  always  knew  it 
would  end  like  this.  Love !  You  have  allowed  a  man  to 
speak  to  you  of  love  and  not  of  marriage?  My  daughter!" 
She  was  trembling  convulsively.  Her  feeling  seemed  out  of 
all  proportion  to  its  cause,  unless  it  was  considered  that  Mrs. 


208  THE  THRESHOLD 

Stevens'  communication  had  sunk  deeper  into  her  conscious 
ness  than  she  knew  and  now  returned  with  added  and  sin 
ister  force.  The  hints  and  innuendoes  which  had  been 
ignored^  that  afternoon  were  suddenly  fraught  with  power 
ful  warnings,  all  of  which  contained  a  modicum  of  reason. 
In  spite  of  the  restraining  voice  of  conscience  she  added 
sternly,  "How  far  -has  this  gone  ?" 

Antonia  was  looking  at  her  in  alarm.  "But  you  do  not 
understand,  mother,"  she  said,  trying  to  be  calm.  "Nothing 
is  changed.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  return  home 
like— like — a  prodigal.  I  will  not  come." 

If  Mrs.  Christy  had  been  asked  to  put  her  thoughts  into 
words  the  task  would  have  been  impossible.  In  bald 
language  she  might  have  shrunk  abashed  from  the  pictures 
imagination  conjured,  the  dreadful  prognostications  incu 
bated  from  fear ;  but,  having  no  words,  her  mind  recoiled  in 
silent  anguish  from  the  abyss  of  fancy  that  tormented  her. 
"I  will  see  your  father,"  she  managed  to  say. 

It  was  late,  past  the  supper  hour  that  was  as  inexorable 
as  one  of  the  Commandments.  Darkness  had  come  on  sud 
denly  and  the  streets  were  filled  with  a  faint  unfriendly 
wind  that  sent  regiments  of  leaves  racing  before  it ;  they 
had  not  been  softened  by  time  and  rain,  and  they  clattered 
against  the  pavement  like  fine  hail.  The  night  was  threaten 
ing,  without  a  sign  of  storm,  for  the  stars  were  unnaturally 
strong  and  cold.  It  was  a  rare  experience  for  Mrs.  Christy 
to  find  herself  alone  in  the  streets  on  such  a  night,  but  she 
had  no  fears.  Rather,  she  was  strengthened  by  some 
mysterious  force  that  came  from  -all  this  wildness  to  blow 
upon  her  spirit.  She  could  have  run  on  and  on  for  in 
terminable  distances  with  this  strength  in  her  heart.  She 
did  not  recognize  it  as  the  exaltation  of  a  divine  love  that 
breaks  all  bounds  at  hint  of  disaster  to  the  one  who  is  loved. 


THE  THRESHOLD  209 

To  her  the  wind  meant  only  freshness, — the  deceitful  energy 
which  autumn  brings  with  its  wild  starry  nights. 

She  turned  in  at  her  own  gate  at  last.  The  house  was 
dimly  lighted  and  when  she  passed  around  the  ell  to  the 
side  porch  she  caught  a  glimpse,  through  the  shadeless  win 
dow,  of  her  husband  standing  in  the  center  of  the  cold,  in 
hospitable  kitchen  surveying  its  emptiness.  Before  this  she 
had  always  been  there. 

He  looked  at  her  frowning  as  she  entered.  "I  have  been 
here  for  half  an  hour,"  he  said. 

She  put  her  hat  aside  and  with  it  the  light  cape  she  wore 
and  began  the  mechanical  supper  tasks  with  apologetic  haste, 
for  although  the  empire  of  her  heart  might  fall,  the  men 
and  children  must  eat. 

She  was  too  wrapped  in  her  own  turbulent  thoughts  to 
notice  that,  contrary  to  habit,  he  lingered  in  the  kitchen 
door,  or  that  he  was  .watching  her  face  as  she  went  about 
her  work.  Donnie  slipped  in  for  a  drink  of  water,  and, 
observing  his  father  and  mother  in  this  unusual  companion 
ship,  hastily  vanished.  It  could  be  seen  that  something 
menaced,  a  power  to  destroy  was  almost  visible  in  the 
homely  room  where  a  thousand  homely  deeds  had  been 
completed. 

But  presently  through  her  abstraction  Mrs.  Christy  be 
came  conscious  of  the  somber  regard  of  her  husband.  This 
espionage  disturbed  her,  caused  her  to  spill  the  coffee  she 
was  carefully  measuring, — finally  forced  her  to  involuntary 
speech.  Without  looking  at  him  she  said  defiantly,  "I  have 
been  to  see  Antonia." 

The  name  was  like  the  opening  of  a  barred  door.  He 
came  over  to  where  she  stood  by  the  stove  and  they  faced 
each  other  across  the  steaming  coffee  pot  and  the  hissing 
pans.  It  was  necessary  to  speak  in  raised  voices  to  be 


210  THE  THRESHOLD 

heard  over  the  miniature  tempest  of  a  meal  in  progress. 

"You  cannot  go  there  any  more.  The  girl  is  disgracing 
herself.  She  is  disgracing  all  of  us,"  he  said  in  a  harsh 
voice. 

"That  is  not  true.  Antonia  has  done  nothing  wrong.  It 
is  you  who  are  hard  on  her.  You  have  always  been  hard," 
cried  Mrs.  Christy,  trembling  all  over  with  the  intensity  of 
her  restraint. 

His  face  changed.  Opposition  from  her  was  too  unex 
pected  and  rare  not  to  have  the  result  of  slight  demoraliza 
tion.  He  had  expected  her  to  be  satisfied  with  his  command 
and  her  rebellion  forced  him  into  unintentional  revelations. 

"She  spends  her  time  among  men  as  no  modest  girl 
would, — it  was  young  Withrow  for  a  while,  and  now  it  is 
Harkness, — old  Saul  Harkness'  boy  whom  I  picked  out  of 
the  gutter  and  taught  to  read.  You  don't  know  everything. 
.  .  .  Yesterday — yesterday — I  saw  them  coming  out  of  the 
Pendleton  house  together.  I  saw  my  daughter — my 
daughter — and  the  Harkness  boy  together.  He  had  bought 
the  house — it  is  empty — " 

Mrs.  Christy  heard  a  loud  voice  crying — "Engaged — no! 
But  he — he — loves  me !"  Her  heart  seemed  to  be  contract 
ing  until  it  wounded  her.  But  she  lifted  a  lid  and  examined 
boiling  potatoes  with  exaggerated  care. 

"They  played  in  that  yard  a  hundred  times  together  when 
they  were  children,"  she  said,  with  the  sprightly  calm  used 
in  conversing  with  Mrs.  Stevens.  "Why  shouldn't  he  show 
it  to  her  now,  if  he's  really  bought  it?" 

He  turned  away  frowning  upon  her  levity.  "You  under 
stand?  You  cannot  go  there  after  this.  There  can  be  no 
conditional  surrender  to  her  course.  She  is  not  my  daughter 
— not  yours." 


THE  THRESHOLD  211 

This  was  ridiculous.  She  wanted  to  laugh  but  the  surge 
within  that  had  sent  her  flying  through  the  windy  streets 
forbade  laughter.  Instead  she  said  quietly : 

"She  must  come  home,  Roscoe.  She  is  not  old  enough 
to  judge  for  herself.  Maybe  you  two  can  get  on  better 
after  this." 

"But  I  say  she  shall  not  come  back  here."  From  the 
doorway  he  turned  on  her  violently,  his  face  slowly  purpling. 
"When  she  left  this  house  it  was  for  all  time.  No  Christy 
woman  can  walk  the  public  streets — 

A  door  shut  between  them.  She  heard  his  feet  echoing 
distantly  on  the  boards  of  the  uncarpeted  hall.  The  walls 
of  the  house  seemed  to  draw  in  until  her  body  was  cramped 
for  room  to  breathe.  She  went  to  the  window  and  flung  it 
wide  open  and  the  wild  winds  came  hurrying  in  and  played 
havoc  with  the  draughts  of  the  stove  and  with  her  hair  that 
was  unaccountably  damp  and  clinging  about  her  face.  But 
it  only  felt  free  and  sweet  to  her  as  she  leaned  against  it. 
"I  am  her  mother !"  she  cried  fiercely  to  the  wind. 

Donnie  had  bread  and  milk  on  a  corner  of  the  kitchen 
table  that  night.  He  washed  his  hands  without  being  told 
to  do  so,  and,  red  and  shining  from  buffetings  by  wind  and 
water,  he  watched  his  mother  surreptitiously  between 
mouthfuls.  Finally  he  could  endure  the  void  between  them 
no  longer. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  eat  supper,  Ma?" 

"Not  now,  Donnie,  I'm  busy." 

"What  you  want  to  iron  for,  Ma, — nobody  irons  at  night." 

"I  must  get  these  things  finished  before  morning, — "  Mrs. 
Christy  had  pulled  garments  from  a  closet,  sprinkled  them 
and  now  she  bent  over  a  board,  furiously  pressing  with  an 
iron  so  hot  that  the  cloth  it  touched  sent  out  an  acrid  smoke. 


212  THE  THRESHOLD 

She  worked  swiftly,  covering  long  sweeps  with  the  bold 
strokes  of  her  iron  and  the  smooth  lengths  fell  magically 
from  her  hands.  Donnie  watched  her,  forgetting  to  eat,  and 
presently  his  silent  scrutiny  pierced  her  consciousness  which 
had  ignored  his  right  to  share  in  the  coming  catastrophe. 

"Donnie,  would  you  care  if  we  went  away  from  here?" 
she  said,  when  the  little  boy  had  nearly  finished  his  supper. 
She  went  on  in  the  wheedling  tone  that  mother's  sometimes 
use  to  their  sons  of  any  age.  "Don't  you  miss  your  sister, 
Donnie  ?" 

He  resented  this  gruffly.  "  'Course  I  miss  her,"  and  he 
began  to  look  for  his  cap.  He  revolted  from  inquisition 
and  a  sense  of  injury  was  born.  His  mother  knew  and 
he  knew  that  he  missed  Antonia  and  that  was  enough. 

But  there  seemed  to  be  no  end  of  prying  to-night. 

"Would  you  care  very  much  if  we  went  away  from  this 
house" — Mrs.  Christy  continued  in  a  dim  voice — "and 
stayed  somewhere  else — where  your  sister  could  stay  with 
us — for  instance  ?" 

Change  has  the  eternal  lure  for  youth.  Donnie's  exit  was 
arrested — his  momentary  twinge  of  regret  for  the  gang 
who  might  be  abandoned.  .  .  .  "All  of  us  ?"  he  questioned 
unbelievingly,  "Pa — and  all?" 

".  .  .  Not  your  father.  He'd  have  to  stay — to  look 
after  things — " 

Expectancy  fell  flat.  Donnie  had  no  way  of  looking  into 
the  minds  of  older  people  but  he  possessed  intuitions.  With 
increasing  frequency  the  air  castles  of  his  childhood  were 
tumbling  down.  Big  things  were  becoming  small  and  unim 
portant  events,  such  as  his  mother's  ironing  at  this  hour  and 
scorching  cloth  without  comment,  were  assuming  propor 
tions  which  perplexed  him.  When  he  heard  that  his  father 
was  to  stay  behind  on  this  problematical  journey,  he  knew 


THE  THRESHOLD  213 

that  his  mother's  proposal  was  based  upon  nothing  real — 
she  was  only  playing  the  old  game  of  "if." 

"Guess  we  wouldn't  go  very  far,"  he  said  flatly,  and  dis 
missed  the  subject.  "Say,  Ma,  I  want  t'go  over  to  Brownie's 
fer  a  little  while.  I  won't  stay  out  late,  hones'  I  won't." 

"But  listen,  Donnie,"  she  stopped  him  with  a  rigid  hand 
and  the  boy  turned  back  frightened  by  her  earnestness. 
"Would  you  rather  stay  here  with  your  father — or  go  with 
me — to  Antonia?  You  just  have  to  say  which.  I'm  giving 
you  your  choice.  .  .  ." 

People  who  would  weep  over  a  cut  finger  or  a  bird's 
broken  wing  are  always  inflicting  this  unspeakable  cruelty 
upon  children — tearing  the  fragile  secret  impulses  of  their 
hearts  from  them  and  forcing  their  tender  loves  into  the 
light  of  acknowledgment.  Donnie  endured  his  crucifixion 
dumbly.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He  was  suddenly 
confronted  with  an  impossible  problem  and  one  which  had 
masked  itself  in  the  ordinary  guise  of  everyday ;  therefore 
it  was  more  incredible  and  unanswerable. 

"I  dunno,"  he  said,  dully. 

"But  you  must  know.  You're  old  enough  now  to  under 
stand.  Would  you  rather  stay  here  with  your  father?" 

Mrs.  Christy  refused  to  see  that  she  was  demanding  that 
to  which  she  had  no  right.  Her  own  problem  blinded  her 
to  the  problems  of  other  people,  and  this  was  a  child's, 
delicate  and  scarcely  formed  within  his  own  heart.  She 
looked  into  his  face,  demanding  his  allegiance. 

Donnie  had  never  thought  of  his  father  in  connection  with 
love ;  he  had  never  thought  of  love  at  all.  He  was  there — 
the  others  of  his  family  were  there.  They  belonged  to  each 
other.  Even  the  incredible  departure  of  Antonia  had  not 
separated  them.  He  saw  her  every  day — nearly.  She 
stopped  on  the  street  to  dab  his  face  with  her  sweet  smelling 


214  THE  THRESHOLD 

handkerchief — to  give  him  five  cents  now  and  then,  slyly, 
so  the  other  boys  would  not  witness  the  largesse  of  a 
woman. 

Yet  now  he  was  asked  to  analyze  an  unknown  emotion, 
non-existent  until  the  present.  He  was  conscious  of  a  feel 
ing  for  his  mother;  it  hurt  him  to  see  tears  in  her  eyes, 
and  he  missed  Antonia's  hands,  which  had  a  way  of  tidying 
him  without  wasted  moments.  But  these  sensations  had  no 
relation  to  the  excitement  of  his  spirit  as  his  mind  pictured 
the  scene  of  his  father  alone  in  the  house,  walking  through 
the  empty  rooms,  sitting  before  his  food,  arising,  departing, 
alone ! 

He  looked  at  his  mother  in  quivering  silence — impossible 
to  choose,  impossible  to  go  or  stay,  apart  from  one  of  these 
who  until  now  had  been  associated  only  with  childish  needs 
or  punishment.  He  searched  her  face  for  some  sign  of 
relenting.  He  believed  until  the  last  that  this  would  prove 
a  hoax  or  a  queer  jest  of  hers  to  prove  his  fidelity  to  her. 
His  own  mates  played  the  game  of  "choose"  and  it  meant 
nothing  more  than  strength  of  numbers.  Reassured  he 
smiled  at  her  wanly. 

"I  knew  you  couldn't  stay  away  from  me,"  cried  his 
mother,  choosing  for  him.  She  spoke  in  the  low  crooning 
voice  that  belonged  to  his  babyhood.  She  was  innocently 
convinced  that  he  felt  no  tie  stronger  than  the  tie  between 
them. 

Donnie  did  not  go  to  play  that  evening.  It  was  already 
eight.  Night  had  begun  to  come  far  too  early. 

In  the  morning  he  had  forgotten.  The  wind  had  stilled 
in  the  night;  the  sun  was  shining  calmly.  It  promised  a 
day  as  hot  as  July.  Thick  white  dust  lay  upon  everything 
after  the  blowing  of  yesterday  and  gigantic  piles  of  leaves 
in  every  fence  corner  were  the  harvest  of  the  wind.  There 


THE  THRESHOLD  215 

were  millions  more  upon  the  trees  that  were  still  green 
but  the  fallen  warriors  were  of  every  hue  and  of  every 
tortured  shape. 

When  he  had  once  looked  upon  this  world  Donnie  could 
barely  wait  to  dress.  Vistas  of  time  must  elapse  before 
recess ;  centuries  until  the  closing  bell  released  him  and  his 
kind.  Before  that  time  interference  might  create  havoc 
in  the  playground  arranged  by  his  friend,  the  wind.  He 
dressed  feverishly. 

Breakfast  was  there  as  usual,  the  white  cloth  and  the  sun 
shining,  strongly  in  the  window.  But  what  was  this  ? 

His  father  was  there,  sitting  in  his  place,  but  not  eating, 
not  drinking — it  was  like  another  morning  weeks  past  when 
he  had  not  eaten  or  drunk.  His  mother  showed  a  more 
surprising  change. 

She  was  wearing  her  best  dress  and  hat  at  breakfast 
time  on  a  school  morning.  She  did  not  even  sit  in  her 
place.  Over  by  the  door  was  a  large  bamboo  suitcase, 
bulging.  Across  this  impossible  scene  Donnie's  memory 
grasped  at  last  night  and  the  things  she  had  said.  What  if 
it  was  no  game,  after  all? 

She  was  speaking.  "You  see,  I've  got  to  go  to  her, 
Roscoe.  I  can't  let  them  talk  freely  about  Antonia.  I've 
got  to  be  there  behind  her.  If  you  won't  bring  her  home — " 

"She  left  home  of  her  own  desire.  If  you  side  with  her 
against  honor — " 

"You  shall  not  say  that!"  cried  Mrs.  Christy  sharply. 
"The  dishonor  lies  at  the  door  of  those  who  think  and 
speak  evil!  And  even  if  it  was  true — if  she  was  that,  I'd 
have  to  go — she's  mine — mine — mine !" 

His  mother  was  crying.  Her  face  which  he  was  used 
to  seeing  in  smiles  was  twisted  into  a  strange  likeness. 
This  wras  not  the  mother  he  knew,  a  woman  who  was  so 


216  THE  THRESHOLD 

strong  that  the  biggest  question  resolved  into  nothing  in 
her  hands.  .  .  .  Her  tears  seemed  to  fall  upon  his  quiver 
ing  spirit,  releasing  it  to  tremendous  endeavors.  He  looked 
belligerently  at  the  man  who  caused  these  tears,  but  there 
was  nothing  fierce  or  cold  in  his  father's  face  to-day.  He 
was  gripping  the  tablecloth  as  if  it  was  something  strong 
which  could  sustain  him  by  its  fixity.  For  the  first  time  he 
was  not  afraid  of  his  father;  he  sensed  in  him  a  weakness 
matched  by  the  weakness  his  mother  showed.  If  Donnie 
had  possessed  the  power  to  put  his  feelings  into  words  he 
would  have  said  to  them,  "Lean  upon  me,"  but  he  was  a 
child  and  did  not  recognize  the  power  that  tried  to  find 
utterance  through  his  puny  body.  He  heard  his  father 
saying  in  a  queer  voice  that  thrilled  him  as  his  mother's 
weeping  had  done. 

"But  you  were  mine  first,  Mattie.  .  .  .  First.  They 
came  afterward.  You're  tearing  it  down." 

"I  can't  help  that,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Christy.  "She's  my  first 
baby  that  lived — nothing  can  change  that.  I  never  thought 
such  a  thing  as  this  could  happen,  but  you  might  have 
known.  My  great  aunt,  Louisa  Saltwell,  walked  right 
through  the  Yankees,  root  and  branch,  and  woke  up  a 
general  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  stopping  at  nothing  until 
she  got  to  her  boy,  lying  wounded  behind  the  lines.  I  could 
do  that  and  I  will.  You  won't  suffer  for  anything,  Roscoe. 
I'll  come  over  every  Friday  and  bake  the  bread  and  see  to 
things,  but  I've  got  to  go  to  her  now." 

Donnie  was  prepared  for  resistance  from  his  father  and 
was  surprised  when  none  came.  He  was  wholly  on  his 
mother's  side  now,  and  was  ready  to  resist  if  commanded 
to  remain.  He  was  sure  that  some  danger  menaced  Antonia 
which  he  was  called  upon  partially  to  avert  and  his  father 
descended  the  scale  in  proportion  to  the  help  he  withheld. 


THE  THRESHOLD  217 

But  he  was  not  called  upon  for  manifestation.  Nothing 
happened.  The  figure  at  the  head  of  the  table  remained 
quiescent  and*  Mrs.  Christy  took  up  the  suitcase  and  opened 
the  door.  Outside  Donnie  began  to  sniffle  and  pull  away. 

"Aw,  wait,  Ma.  Can't  you?  I  didn't  get  t'tell  the  fellers 
good-by.  Lemme  whistle  t'  Brownie,  won't  you?  They'll 
say  I'm  a  quitter." 

"Be  quiet,  Donnie,"  said  his  mother  in  a  strange,  hard 
voice,  "we're  only  going  a  little  way.  You'll  see  your 
friends  every  day." 

His  exaltation  diminished  as  his  feet  lagged.  Five 
minutes  ago  he  had  been  a  knight,  now  he  was  only  a  small 
boy  reluctantly  following  a  woman.  Like  everything  else, 
the  importance  of  this  change  became  nullified  with  realiza 
tion.  He  was  defrauded  as  he  had  been  defrauded  a  hun 
dred  times,  by  the  inexplicable  failure  of  people  to  live  up 
to  their  promises.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  say  of  Donnie 
that  he  was  disappointed  in  the  dramatic  failure  of  this 
finale ;  his  mind  was  too  immature  to  plan,  but  he  had  been 
prepared  for  greater  sacrifice  than  this.  He  sought  for  a 
key  to  the  incomprehensible  occurrence,  but  found  nothing 
that  explained  it.  Reviewing  the  scene,  he  knew  that  he 
would  have  chosen  differently  had  he  been  unswayed  by 
his  mother's  weeping — for  this  was  something  faintly  shame 
ful  ;  a  thing  he  must  defend  while  condemning  it  in  his 
heart. 

There  could  be  no  reason  strong  enough  to  take  his  mother 
to  live  in  another  house  while  her  own  remained  deserted. 

The  gate  closed  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ANTQNIA'S    eyes    had    grown    troubled,    and    beyond 
this   trouble  was  expectation — the  wonder   of   youth 
puzzled  by  the  delay  of  happiness. 

Every  day  she  went  to  the  office  in  the  Sheridan  Building 
as  usual,  performed  the  duties  that  belonged  to  her ;  read 
the  books  that  were  necessary  to  her  growing  knowledge, 
and  when  this  was  over,  returned  to  the  boarding-house  and 
to  the  room  she  now  shared  with  her  mother. 

It  was  amazing  to  see  how  Mrs.  Christy,  the  most  conven 
tional  of  mortals,  whose  bringing  up  as  one  of  the  Saltwell 
girls  had  been  impeccable,  met  the  situation  in  which  the 
abrupt  desertion  of  her  lifework  placed  her. 

From  the  first  she  announced  to  Antonia  that  she  did 
not  intend  to  be  a  "burden"  as  she  expressed  it.  Antonia's 
small  wage  was  barely  sufficient  to  provide  for  her  own 
support,  and  Mrs.  Christy,  looking  over  her  resources,  chose 
one  of  the  two  occupations  which  have  been  the  bulwark 
of  needy  gentlewomen  for  all  time.  .  .  .  She  "took  in" 
sewing,  and  after  the  first  child's  gingham  frock  left  her 
hands  she  was  inundated  with  orders.  Her  room  was 
turned  into  a  pink  and  blue  bower  where  she  stitched  from 
morning  until  night,  finding  a  secret,  satisfying  delight  in 
contact  with  dainty  materials  and  pale  colors  which  had 
been  denied  her  before  this.  Her  customers  were  nearly 
all  children ;  small,  dressy  persons,  and  in'  catering  to  them 
she  was  able  to  carry  on  the  dream  of  frivolous  young  girl 
life  which  Antonia  had  refused  to  enter. 

218 


THE  THRESHOLD  219 

The  first  day  of  every  week  always  brought  a  letter 
addressed  in  a  cramped  script  that,  in  spite  of  its  ugliness, 
was  perfectly  legible ;  when  she  was  alone  she  would  open 
this,  extract  the  folded  check  which  it  contained,  and  enclose 
it  in  another  envelope  on  which  she  wrote  her  husband's 
address  in  characters  fine  and  delicate  as  copper  plate,  using 
the  long  "s"  in  Christy,  which  somehow  gave  the  missive  a 
Chaucerian  effect — as  though  a  careless  postoffice  had  kept 
it  hidden  for  years  and  only  released  it  now-  for  the  mysti 
fication  of  its  modern  employees. 

The  vast  alteration  which  had  taken  place  in  the  Christy 
family  caused  Antonia  poignant  and  secret  anguish.  It 
would  have  wounded  Mrs.  Christy  deeply  could  she  have 
known  how  little  Antonia  was  in  sympathy  with  her  de 
cision.  Nature  alone  is  the  prelude  to  such  an  action, 
and  Antonia,  not  having  experienced  motherhood,  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  understand  the  power  that  drew  her 
own  mother  from  the  anchor  of  established  habit  to  the 
defense  of  her  child.  But  Antonia  understood  love  and 
thought  she  had  a  conception  of  what  marriage  meant,  and 
she  could  not  comprehend  abandoning  one  tie  for  the  other. 
It  is  the  tragic  law  of  creation  that  the  parent  love  con 
tinues  long  after  the  new  life  has  turned  away  to'  its  own 
gods.  But  Antonia  was,  of  course,  blind  and  was  merciful 
only  in  keeping  her  real  attitude  a  secret  from  her  mother 
who  she  believed  had  blundered. 

She  was  troubled  about  her  father,  for  almost  visibly 
her  resentment  toward  him  was  fading  into  nothingness. 
She  had  been  unable  to  gauge  the  full  measure  of  her  own 
unfaithfulness,  but  she  could  plainly  see  her  mother's  lack 
of  faith.  Without  knowing  she  was  cruel,  Antonia  assumed 
a  vast  cruelty  in  her  contemplation  of  the  forces  which 
actuated  the  behavior  of  her  parents.  She  could  not  under- 


220  THE  THRESHOLD 

stand  why  they  felt  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  suffer  for 
her  sake,  and  to  interfere  with  her  progress.  Why  was  it 
impossible  for  them  to  see  that  she  was  a  separate  person 
ality  ;  that  all  their  pain  was  useless  and  could  not  touch  her 
beyond  the  call  it  made  upon  her  sympathy.  And  even 
this  sympathy  was  sorely  tried  by  the  pressing  of  their 
claim  upon  her  at  this  time ;  she  felt  their  hands  holding 
her  back,  reclaiming  her  for  the  childhood  she  had  left 
behind,  and  restraining  her  from  the  full  realization  of  life 
which  was  her  due. 

But  there  were  times  when  she  felt  nearer  to  her  father 
than  she  had  ever  felt ;  her  eyes  were  seeing  new  visions  every 
day,  and  her  impatience  with  his  resistance  to  her  growing 
personality  was  changing  to  tolerance,  sweet  and  wistful  for 
his  love  and  approval.  As  the  feminine  side  of  her  nature 
assumed  form  and  importance,  she  marveled  at  the  seeming 
ease  with  which  Mrs.  Christy  broke  the  bonds  of  a  lifetime 
spent  in  service  and  the  simple  dignity  of  a  wife,  to  choose 
a  lowly  seat  in  Mrs.  Miller's  basement  dining-room  and 
the  companionship  of  the  people 'who  harbored  there. 

"You  mustn't  bother  about  me,  Antonia,"  her  mother 
assured  her  every  morning,  as  she  sat,  rocking  gayly  back 
and  forth  in  the  sunshine  of  the  neat  bedroom,  her  needle 
threaded,  ready  to  begin.  "This  is  the  first  rest  I've  had  for 
a  long  time.  You've  got  to  admit  that  things  'wcfe  a  little 
behind  the-  times  at  home — half  the  pans  with  holes  in  them 
and  the  eternal  grind  of  housework.  It's  really  pleasant  to 
be  boarding,  and  if  it  were  not  for  Donnie,  I'd  enjoy  the 
change." 

Only  an  adept  in  psychology  could  have  known  how  much 
of  this-  was  real  and  how  much  pretense.  Whether  Mrs. 
Christy's  volatile  side  had  gained  control,  or  whether  she 
was  playing,  the  common  role  of  contentment,  only  she  could 


THE  THRESHOLD  221 

say.  But  Antonia,  with  the  one-sided  judgment  of  youth, 
looked  upon  her  mother  with  coldness  not  to  be  concealed. 
She  had  never  denied  that  housework  and  leaky  pans  were 
distasteful,  but  coming  from  Mrs.  Christy,  this  complaint 
savored  of  disloyalty.  Later  that  morning  she  walked  a 
block  or  two  with  Donnie  on  his  way  to  school. 

"You'll  go  back  home  one  of  these  days,"  she  comforted 
him.  "Father  will  come  and  take  you  away.  I  know  it's 
beastly,  not  having  the  boys  come  near  the  place,  but  a 
boarding-house  isn't  home.  The  main  thing  is  that  -you 
mustn't  let  mother  see  that  you  are  unhappy." 

Donnie  had  been  the  principal  sufferer  from  the  change, 
and  occupied  the  unique  position  of  an  alien  in  the  austerity 
of  Mrs.  Miller's  house.  In  the  injustice  of  this  separation 
from  his  mates,  he  had  come  to  a  closer  understanding  with 
the  sister  who  alone  could  measure  his  isolation.  It  was 
natural  that  he  should  make  her  the  confidant  of  that  which 
a  boy  of  eleven  confesses  only  to  those  who  are  closest  to 
him. 

He  shared  with  her  the  secret  that  he  had  already  paid 
surreptitious  visits  to  his  home ;  once  he  had  eaten  supper 
with  his  father,  a  supper  cooked  by  themselves  and  posses 
sing  all  the  qualities  of  a  man-made  meal.  Donnie  described 
it  as  a  "bully  supper,"  and  smacked  his  lips  in  reminiscent 
appreciation. 

"Yes,  but  does  he  ever  speak  of  me?"  Antonia  asked 
wistfully,  and  the  little  brother,  who  was  beginning  to  allow 
love  a  recognition  in  his  heart,  was  forced  to  say,  "No." 

"But  he  will,  some  day,"  he  added,  in  order  to  comfort 
her.  "I'll  get  to  talking  about  you  sometime.  I'll  tell  him 
how  many  pretty  dresses  you've  got.  He'll  wanta  see 
'em.  .  .  ." 

They  had  come  to  the  corner  of  separation. 


222  THE  THRESHOLD 

"No,  no,  you  must  not  tell  him  that !"  warned  Antonia 
in  a  stifled  voice.  "He  wouldn't  want  to  hear  that.  We'll 
tell  him  something  else." 

She  saw  Cleve  every  day.  Their  moments  together  were 
stolen  moments,  because  Major  Bailey  had  moved  a  great 
many  of  his  belongings  into  the  office  which  Cleve  was 
soon  to  vacate,  and  was  fussily  busy  cataloguing  books — a 
task  at  which  Antonia  helped  him  gratefully.  There  might 
have  been  opportunity  for  longer,  more  intimate  talks,  but 
she  held  shyly  aloof.  She  trusted  Cleve  profoundly;  the 
understanding  between  them  was  crystal  clear  and,  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes,  they  found  no  shadows  there. 

But  the  wound  dealt  to  her  delicate  first  love  by  her 
mother's  incredulity  persisted  in  its  sting.  .  .  .  She  could 
not  forget  that  Mrs.  Christy  had  linked  engagements  and 
declarations  of  love  into  indissoluble  partnership.  The 
bloom  of  her  happiness  was  disturbed  by  this  conventional 
banality.  She  knew  that  she  was  to  be  Cleve's  wife — 
that  he  already  thought  of  her  as  such,  but  because  he  had 
not  spoken  of  this  in  words  she  drew  back,  afraid. 

Cleve,  whose  soul  was  as  conventional  as  his  boots,  was 
not  unaware  of  this  omission,  though  he  did  not  measure  its 
influence  upon  the  spirit  of  the  girl  he  had  chosen  and 
intended  to  make  his  own. 

But  Cleve  was  now  paying  the  price  of  those  who  exact 
a  tarnished  tribute  from  love  instead  of  the  true  metal. 
Before  he  could  build  his  first  hearth  fire  in  the  new  char 
acter,  he  must  put  the  house  of  his  past  in  order.  A  bona 
fide  engagement  with  Antonia  would  mean  solitaires  and  a 
published  announcement.  This,  with  his  relations  with  Rose 
unsettled,  was  unthinkable.  In  spite  of  this  new  happiness 
that  blew  upon  his  soul  like  a  fresh  wind,  he  thought  more 
and  more  frequently  of  Rose.  He  was  amazed  to  find  him- 


THE  THRESHOLD  223 

self  thinking  of  her  more  seriously  than  in  the  time  of  their 
early  love  and,  looking  the  matter  over  with  the  dispas 
sionate  eyes  of  vanished  passion,  he  told  himself  that  he 
had  been  a  fool — the  worst  kind  of  a  fool.  More  and  more 
he  longed  for  the  honorable  calm  of  marriage  and 
propriety. 

Cleve  was  sophisticated  by  instinct  if  not  by  experience ; 
that  is,  he  could  gauge  the  exact  extent  of  his  dangerous 
experiment  and  without  hesitation  choose  the  proper  remedy. 
He  was  in  love  with  Antonia ;  he  had  actually  loved  her  all 
his  life  without  realizing  it,  because  he  had  been  too  blinded 
by  his  passion  for  self -advancement  to  think  of  such  love  as 
a  possible  achievement.  But  the  money  left  by  old  Saul  had 
given  him  a  respite ;  he  learned  in  a  flash  that  the  hard  road 
of  success  need  not  be  for  him,  and  he  very  quickly  reorgan 
ized  his  plans,  which  included  marriage  with  the  one  girl 
who  he  knew  answered  to  the  half  vulgar  advice  of  his 
friend,  "a  woman  you  can  trust." 

His  mad  passion  for  Rose  was  ended ;  it  had  completed 
its  cycle  and  existed  no  more,  but  shame  for  his  own  weak 
ness  continued  to  exist,  and  marriage  was  the  one  remedy 
suggested  which  promised  to  take  the  sting  from  remem 
brance  and  salve  his  self-disgust. 

Rose  had  ceased  to  send  for  him  or  to  telephone,  and 
her  silence  was  cause  for  more  uneasiness  than  messages 
would  have  given.  His  excuse  of  retirement  following  his 
father's  death  was  worn  thin,  and  now  there  was  nothing 
left  to  shield  him  but  an  unaccountable  dread  of  seeing  her, 
of  having  to  explain  what  was  so  simple  yet  so  inexplicable. 
He  wished  with  impatience,  as  many  another  man  has 
wished,  that  she  would  look  at  things  sensibly  and  of  her 
own  volition  drop  back  into  their  old  pleasant  relation. 

Yet  as  he  longed  for  this  he  knew  it  to  be  impossible. 


224  THE  THRESHOLD 

Rose  would  never  again  be  the  Rose  he  had  first  known,  who 
by  her  sweetness,  her  brilliant  wit  and  gentle  sarcasm  had 
ruled  her  little  world  with  an  unseen  scepter.  When  he 
thought  of  this,  his  dread  of  meeting  her  grew  immeas- 
ureably.  He  would  not  admit  even  to  himself  that  his 
hand  had  helped  bring  her  to  disaster,  but  in  his  heart  he 
knew  this  to  be  true. 

Dupagny  had  come  to  grief.  It  was  no  longer  possible 
for  his  clever  tongue  to  beguile  money  from  pockets  where 
it  belonged.  He  was  found  out,  and  like  some  poor 
masquerader  whose  disguise  has  been  pierced,  he  turned  to 
flee,  finding  a  stone  in  every  hand  that  once  had  held  a 
flower.  But  Cleve,  with  the  clear  sighted  acumen  which 
in  this  case  was  an  unwelcome  attribute,  saw  that  the  real 
reason  for  Dupagny's  failure  was  in  Rose,  herself.  It  had 
been  Rose  all  along  who  braced  him  by  her  joyous  spirit, 
her  calm  defiance  to  bad  luck.  When  she  drooped  his 
courage  took  wing.  She  could  have  upheld  him  and  urged 
him  on  until  something  might  have  been  saved  from  the 
wreck,  but  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him.  .  .  .  Cleve, 
the  tired  lover,  saw  nothing  in  this  situation  except  blame 
for  the  woman.  He  had  no  pity  for  her  drooping  standards ; 
if  she  had  fought  back  and  conquered  the  fools  who  were 
pushing  her  down  she  might  have  held  him — not  his  love, 
but  the  feeling  she  had  first  won  from  him,  a  curious 
assembling  of  boyish  admiration,  a  sort  of  hero-worship, 
sexless  and  all  the  more  sincere. 

But  she  had  not  held  her  own  and  now  he  was  with  the 
crowd  who  watched  her  curiously,  wondering  what  she 
would  do  next. 

That  she  did  nothing  failed  to  reassure  him.  He  knew 
that,  however  great  her  collapse,  there  must  be  a  readjust 
ment  when  her  wings  would  struggle  to  regain  their  freedom. 


THE  THRESHOLD  225 

Therefore  he  did  not  speak  the  magical  words  that  would 
have  bound  Antonia's  life  to  his  before  the  world.  He  knew 
that  she  was  his  to  claim  when  he  would,  and  the  joys  that 
were  to  come  possessed  in  his  eyes  some  of  the  calm  of 
eternity. 

In  one  of  their  brief  meetings  Antonia  told  him  timidly 
of  her  mother's  decision  to  live  with  her  for  a  time.  "My 
father  is  alone,"  she  said  in  a  blurred  voice. 

It  was  singular  that  Cleve  should  be  one  of  the  few 
persons  in  Cresston  unaware  of  the  scandal  which  was 
coming  each  day  nearer  to  a  revelation.  Major  Bailey, 
who  must  have  known,  preserved  a  delicate  air  of  neu 
trality  and  contented  himself  with  blundering  interference 
whenever  he  saw  Antonia  and  Cleve  together.  He  and 
Judge  Christy  had  once  been  friends,  though  there  was 
more  than  a  decade  between  their  years,  and  the  Baileys 
and  Christys  belonged  to  the  same  past  era. 

Cleve  thought  of  no  explanation  for  the  queerness  of  Mrs. 
Christy's  step,  nor  did  he  seek  for  one.  The  answer  might 
have  been  found  in  his  origin.  He  saw  nothing  strange  or 
sinister  in  the  separation  of  the  Christy  family — it  seemed 
entirely  fitting  that  Antonia's  mother  should  be  with  her ; 
the  quarrel  between  father  and  daughter  would  be  easily 
adjusted  when  Antonia  became  his  wife  and  her  hectic 
fancies  had  merged  into  wifehood  and  motherhood.  It  was 
not  possible  for  him  to  conjecture  malevolent  gossip  with 
the  name  he  secretly  revered,  so  that  he  read  no  meaning  in 
Antonia's  tone. 

"You  must  not  fret  about  the  Judge,"  he  consoled  her, 
"some  day  he's  going  to  know  what  a  wonderful  girl  he's 
father  to." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  She  wanted  to  explain  that 
she  was  beginning  to  love  her  father  and  to  understand  in 


226  THE  THRESHOLD 

him  what  had  been  hidden  from  the  unawakened  eyes  of 
her  childhood.  But  she  could  not  speak  of  these  things 
without  touching  upon  others  which  were  forbidden  by  his 
silence.  And  she  saw  in  his  eyes  that  he  was  far  from 
following  where  her  thoughts  wandered. 

"You  must  not  mind,  dear.  I  love  you,"  whispered  Cleve, 
as  though  that  covered  everything. 

Peter  Withrow  was  away  during  these  weeks.  His 
absence  might  have  had  something  to  do  with  Laurence 
Dupagny's  hopeless  depression ;  Peter  had  invested  money 
in  some  mad-hatter  scheme  of  the  promoter,  and,  with  most 
un-Peter  like  perspicuity,  had  decided  to  investigate  before 
sending  safe  money  after  that  which  was  imperiled. 

He  sent  no  word  of  his  return  and  Antonia  was  astounded 
to  find  him  walking  up  and  down  the  office  with  nervous 
strides  and  an  awakened  look  somewhere  about  him  when 
she  came  in  one  morning.  He  had  come  straight  from  the 
train;  the  marks  of  travel  and  a  sleepless  night  were  there 
as  plainly  as  his  bags  piled  by  the  door.  Peter  was  not 
looking  his  best;  he  had  not  shaved  and  his  face  was  thin 
and  careworn.  He  came  to  meet  Antonia  and  took  her  hand, 
looking  earnestly  into  her  face  with  his  own  near-sighted 
eyes. 

"You  are  still  coming  here?"  he  said,  as  though  her 
presence  surprised  him. 

She  was  taken  aback.  Her  fingers,  about  to  remove  her 
hat,  slowly  relaxed  and  curled  into  her  palms.  She  returned 
his  look  wonderingly,  but  beneath  the  wonder  was  a  glint 
of  understanding. 

"You — you — did  not  expect  to  find  me?"  she  faltered, 
trying  in  vain  to  speak  steadily.  "Did  you  write?" 

Peter  took  a  long  breath.  "No,  I  did  not  write,"  he 
replied  absently.  Then  he  reached  for  one  of  her  curled 


THE  THRESHOLD  227 

hands  and  drew  her  to  him  until  they  stood  closely  together, 
face  to  face.     "Antonia,"  he  said,  "will  you  marry  me  ?" 

She  must  have  been  startled.  Nine  in  the  morning  is  not 
a  normal  hour  for  a  proposal  of  marriage,  nor  is  a  business 
office,  at  the  mercy  of  every  intruder,  the  place  for  such 
an  event.  Antonia  was  not  as  accustomed  to  proposals  as 
a  girl  so  lovely  might  have  been  expected  to  be,  and  such 
a  development  from  her  relation  with  Peter  was  unlocked 
for.  But  she  received  it  after  a  scant  space  of  confusion, 
with  a  sweet  steadiness  that  removed  all  element  of  unre 
ality  from  the  moment.  Peter  had  blundered  unpardonably 
in  offering  himself  to  her  under  these  circumstances ;  he 
might  have  known  that  she  would  see  through  him  and 
demand  to  know  his  reasons.  He  was  prepared  for  it  when 
she  spake. 

"Peter,"  she  asked,  letting  him  keep  her  hands,  "what 
has  happened?" 

It  was  not  the  way  she  should  have  answered  and  it 
robbed  him  of  his  obscure  hour  and  reduced  his  words  to  im 
materiality.  Antonia's  clear  and  reasoning  brain  would  not 
accept  this  incongruous  situation  on  its  face,  but  he  was 
offended  by  her  plain  rejection  of  his  sincerity.  He  released 
her  hand  at  once,  leaving  her  to  stand  unsupported  before 
him. 

"I  have  always  loved  you,  Antonia,"  he  answered  simply, 
after  awhile.  "Why  should  you  think  it  strange  that  I  am 
asking  you  to  be  my  wife?" 

"Peter,  Peter !"  she  repeated  and  gave  a  little  laugh.  She 
knew  that  his  words  were  serious,  but  she  could  not  believe 
that  he  was.  It  was  true  that  she  had  always  known  of 
his  love,  but  it  had  never  impressed  itself  upon  her  as  a 
strong  emotion.  She  overlooked  the  pathos  of  this  love 
that  she  refused,  in  seeking  for  its  origin.  But  when  she 


228  THE  THRESHOLD 

did  think  of  this,  her  laughter  ceased.  "I — I — am  sorry, 
Peter,"  she  faltered,  becoming  trite  and  feminine  at  the 
realization  that  he  offered  himself  as  her  husband. 

"You  mean  that  you  won't  marry  me? — or  that  you  can 
not  love  me?" 

Jest  and  laughter  were  far  away  from  them  now.  An- 
tonia  felt  a  surging  desire  for  tears  instead,  as  though  she 
had  wounded  something  that  clung  to  her.  A  sort  of  blank- 
ness  spread  itself  -between  them.  This  would  mean  life 
without  Peter;  his  quizzical  smile  and  slow,  comforting 
words  would  be  absent  from  her  days — for  Antonia  was 
not  old  or  wise  enough  to  know  that  the  best  of  friends 
are  those  who  have  denied  themselves  to  love. 

"You  love  somebody  else,"  Peter  stated,  his  face  hard 
ening. 

She  was  instantly  on  the  defensive.  Here  was  another 
who  would  try  to  drag  her  tender  secret  into  the  light.  He 
saw  the  quick  changing  of  her  face  and  added  gently.  "You 
need  not  tell  me  anything.  I  have  no  right  to  ask.  But 
my  love  gives  me  the  right  to  guard  you,  Antonia.  You 
must  not  stay  here  any  longer." 

She  was  stung  by  that.  "Are  you  like  the  others?  I 
did  not  think  so.  Oh,  how  can  people  believe  such  things? 
How  can  they  doubt  one  another — ?" 

"Then  you  have  heard — " 

"My  mother  wanted  me  to  give  up  my  position  here 
because  there  were  stories  going  about,"  she  returned,  meet 
ing  his  gaze  steadily,  "but  I  refused.  Why  should  I  admit, 
by  doing  that,  that  these  things  concerned  me?  How  does 
any  one  know  that  they  are  true?  If — if — any  one  has  done 
wrong  why  should  I  run  away  as  though  I  feared  con 
tamination —  ?" 

He  saw  the  impossibility  of  making  her  understand.    She 


THE  THRESHOLD  229 

was  determined  not  to  betray  her  convictions  of  personal 
independence.  Like  all  reformers  she  was  blindly  and 
cheerfully  putting  her  strength  against  the  unconquerable. 

"You  cannot  stay  here  any  longer!"  he  said  harshly, 
giving  it  up.  "Good  God !  What  can  Harkness  be  thinking 
of  ?  Don't  stop  even  for  an  hour.  You  must  go  now  !" 

In  his  effort  to  right  a  wrong  Peter  acted  with  exag 
gerated  haste  and  the  wrong  was  confused  with  injustice. 
Humiliated,  she  turned  to  obey.  "You  mean  that — it  is 
all  over?  You  don't  want  me  any  more?" 

"Good  God !"  he  exclaimed  again,  aghast  at  her  unbe 
lief.  "Don't  you  understand?  Try  to  understand!  It  is 
for  your  own  sake.  I  can't  make  anything  plainer.  This 
place  isn't  fit  for  you — for  a  girl  like  you.  How  blind  I 
have  been.  ...  A  lot  of  it  is  my  fault — but  I  never  saw 
what  was  plain  to  everybody — " 

She  did  not  wait,  to  take  even  her  small  belongings  from 
her  desk  which  had  been  moved  the  day  before  into  Major 
Bailey's  rooms.  She  was  about  to  pass  without  another 
word  when  Peter  spoke  again  in  a  dull,  changed  voice, 
devoid  of  feeling  or  passion. 

"Will  you  remember  that  I  love  you,  Antonia?  No 
matter  what  happens,  that  I  will  always  love  you — that  I 
will  come  to  you  anywhere  at  any  hour — and  that  my  life 
is  yours?" 

She  could  not  answer.  She  was  crying  softly  as  she 
went  out  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ROSE  was  surprised  on.e  day  to  hear  Nina  Tyson's  voice 
speaking  to  Emily  at  the  door. 

"Ask  Mrs.  Dupagny  to  come  down — or  may  I  go  up? 
Perhaps  that  would  be  better." 

Rose  surveyed  herself  in  the  glass,  looked  at  the  room 
which  would  reveal  far  too  much  to  the  keen  eyes  of  her 
visitor,  and  then  called  over  the  balustrade,  "Don't  bother. 
I'm  coming  clown." 

When  the  two  faced  each  other  in  the  living-room,  both 
found  it  difficult  to  make  a  beginning.  Nina  Tyson  had 
never  been  one  of  Rose's  friends  and  her  motive  in  coming 
now  was  not  easy  to  explain. 

She  was  a  tall,  handsome  woman  affecting  a  somewhat 
masculine  pose,  which  excused  her  spare,  large-boned  figure 
and  brusk  manners.  Her  eyes  were  cold,  weary,  and  dis 
satisfied — eyes  that  had  never  found  what  they  sought  and 
were  tired  of  their  quest.  She  was  the  distinct  antithesis 
of  Rose  Dupagny  and  there  had  always  been  an  unac 
knowledged  war  between  the  two,  a  war  of  clothes,  admirers 
and  entertainment.  Everybody  knew  how  Nina  felt  toward 
her  husband,  who  was  as  narrow  and  parsimonious  as  he 
was  rich,  and  every  one  had  pitied  her  except  Rose,  who 
had  not  understood  why  money  was  not  enough.  There 
had  been  no  common  ground  between  the  two  women,  yet 
now  Rose  discovered  that  it  was  Nina  Tyson,  alone  of  all 
her  set,  who  was  offering  help  when  she  was  sinking. 

230 


THE  THRESHOLD  231 

"Why  don't  you  pull  up?"  Nina  asked,  in  her  cold  emo 
tionless  voice.  "It  isn't  too  late.  .  .  .  We'll  stand  behind 
you — we  women.  I'll  make  'em.  But  you've  got  to  get 
rid  of  him  first.  Nobody  can  win  when  they're  whipped  at 
heart.  This  is  your  chance  to  come  back,  Rose." 

Rose  was  huddled  in  -her  chair.  She  felt  herself  shrivel 
ing  beneath  the  hard  scrutiny  of  her  visitor's  eyes. 
Although  her  heart  was  numb  with  its  continued  piteous 
ache,  her  pride,  fighting  feebly,  urged  her  to  reply. 

"Are  you  talking  about — my  husband?" 

"Your  husband !  You  know  •!  am  not.  I  mean  Cleve 
Harkness.  Good  Lord,  girl,  can't  you  see  how  you've 
wasted  yourself  on  him?  He's  not  the  sort  to  love  a 
woman — he  wouldn't  try." 

"What  makes  you  think — " 

Mrs.  Tyson  moved  impatiently.  She  liked  Rose  less  than 
ever  for  her  reluctance  in  meeting  advances  that  were  de 
cently  fair.  But  she  was-  able  to  pity  her  opponent  who 
cringed  under  the  lash  of  truth.  There  was  nothing  subtle 
in  her  make-up  and  she  believed  the  most  merciful  course 
would  be  to  show  the  facts  as  every  one  saw  them.  So  she 
said  brutally : 

"You've  lost  your  head  like  a  child  that  pulls  its  play 
house  down.  You  think  that  you're  in  love  with  Cleve 
Harkness  and  because  you  can't  get  him — or  can't  hold 
him — you  won't  accept  anything  less.  You're  not  a  woman, 
you're  a  spoiled  youngster  and  if  you  were  sixteen  you'd 
be  sent  to  boarding-school  and  taught  to  think  about  normal 
things — but  being  a  woman  you  have  free  rein  to  ruin 
every  one  who  depends  on  you.  Why  don't  you  buck  up 
and  save  yourself  and  your  husband  and  show  that  mucker 
he  doesn't  count?  Don't  deny  anything  .  .  .  you've  been 
foolish  enough  to  turn  a  servant  who  knows  everything 


232  THE  THRESHOLD 

loose  in  the  town.  .  .  .  You  didn't  realize  that  girls  like 
that  really  hate  us.  If  they  are  virtuous  they  hold  it  over 
us  like  a  bank  book.  ...  As  I  said  before,  we'll  help  you — 
even  my  brute  of  a  mother-in-law  will  help.  She's 
promised." 

Rose  was  sobbing;  her  restraint  was  broken  down,  her 
pride  tortured  beyond  endurance,  but  with  this  came  a  re 
freshing  sensation  of  activity.  The  torpor  of  waiting  was 
demolished;  whatever  came  now  must  be  the  quick.  But 
as  the  picture  developed  by  the  other's  words  unfolded, 
her  courage  drooped.  She  knew  that  she  could  never  run 
the  gauntlet  of  those  eyes  that  read  her  defeat. 

"You  don't  knoAv  .  .  .  you've  never  loved,"  she  stam 
mered,  between  her  sobs. 

Mrs.  Tyson  got  up  to  go.  "Perhaps  not,"  she  admitted 
dryly,  "not  as  you  know  love.  But  I  have  felt  a  lot,  off 
and  on,  though  it  never  conquered  me.  It's  all  a  question 
of  temperament,  I  suppose,  whether  we're  Magdalens  or 
Christian  martyrs.  But  I  didn't  come  here  to  bully  you, 
though  it  looks  like  it.  I'm  going  now,  but  try  to  see  the 
right  of  things  before  it  is  too  late.  Don't  let  your  con 
science  bother  you,  my  dear.  I  daresay  under  the  skin  we're 
all  ravening  wolves,  and  it's  only  a  thin  coat  of  decency 
that  keeps  us  from  tearing  each  other's  throats.  You've 
dropped  your  decency,  Rose:  try  to  pin  it  on  again  and 
come  back  and  play  with  us." 

Late  in  the  following  morning  the  Dupagny  maid  of  all 
work,  going  languidly  about  her  duties,  entered  her  master's 
bedroom  with  brooms  and  dusters  and  found  him  still  there, 
clothed  as  he  had  been  at  the  eight  o'clock  breakfast  in  a 
soiled  dressing-gown,  once  rich  and  lustrous,  and  with  a 
stubble  of  gray  beard  showing  upon  his  lean  face,  as  back 
ground  for  his  hollowed,  desperate  eyes. 


THE  THRESHOLD  233 

He  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  tumbled  bed  and  on 
the  floor  before  him  were  spread  two  or  three  traveling  bags 
of  various  sizes,  into  which  he  had  been  folding  articles  of 
clothing,  awkwardly  sorted,  as  though  his  hands  were  acting 
without  relation  to  his  brain.  Beside  him  on  the  bed  were 
a  brief  case  and  a  quantity  of  papers  divided  into  two 
careless  piles.  His  attention,  given  to  these  matters,  was 
undiverted  by  the  entrance  of  the  servant  who  began  her 
work  by  flinging  open  a  window  whose  draught  sent  the 
papers  scurrying  while  it  cleansed  the  atmosphere  of  the  odor 
of  stale  tobacco  with  which  the  room  was  heavily  charged. 

But  Dupagny  was  annoyed  by  the  confusion  in  his  work 
and  ordered  the  girl  to  leave  the  room.  He  spoke  to  her 
roughly,  and  as  she  was  an  insolent  creature  with  the 
stimulus  of  a  month's  unpaid  wages  behind  the  impertinence 
she  flung  at  him  as  she  obeyed,  he  was  more  disturbed 
by  her  voice  than  by  the  clean  wind.  She  left  the  window 
open  and  as  he  crossed  the  room  to  close  it  he  swore 
feebly  under  his  breath.  Across  the  hall  in  Mrs.  Dupagny's 
room  where  conditions  were  no  better,  she  complained 
bitterly  and  hinted  at  leaving. 

Nobody  could  keep  a  house  "straightened"  when  people 
stayed  cluttered  in  their  rooms  for  half  the  morning,  she 
said,  and  Rose  learned  from  her  ill-tempered  grumblings 
that  Dupagny  was  still  in  the  house. 

She  had  tried  earnestly  to  live  up  to  the  hope  that  Nina 
Tyson  held  out  to  her;  since  their  conversation  the  day 
before  she  had  made  a  tremendous  effort  to  tear  her 
thoughts  from  the  sickening  round  of  conjecture  which  had 
Cleve  as  its  central  figure,  and  to  concentrate  on  some  plan 
for  a  future  that  seemed  headed  for  destruction.  She  had 
slept  little  that  night,  and,  like  a  person  throwing  off  the 
bonds  of  sickness,  she  struggled  to  touch  something  real  and 


234  THE  THRESHOLD 

stable  that  would  help  her  to  hold  the  course  she  knew  was 
right  and  sane. 

With  each  day  she  had  clung  more  desperately  to  the 
belief  that  her  love  would  be  justified,  but  the  bald  re 
proaches  of  Nina  Tyson  who  represented  the  world,  took 
this  fading  fetich  from  her  hands.  The  words,  "he  never 
loved  you"  had  a  ring  of  finality.  If  he  had  never 
loved  her,  what  then  remained? 

She  had  almost  eliminated  Dupagny  from  her  thoughts, 
but  when  she  learned  that  he  was  still  in  the  house  the  old, 
feverish  impatience  for  his  absence  asserted  itself.  His 
presence  disturbed  and  demoralized  her ;  it  was  a  continual 
reproach  and  she  could  not  rest  while  he  was  near  her ;  yet 
apart  from  this  she  felt  a  vague  uneasiness  at  what  the 
servant's  words  disclosed. 

Her  own  cold  coffee  stood  on  a  tabouret  beside  the  day 
bed,  where  she  lay,  pretending  to  read  the  morning  paper 
that  had  been  brought  to  her  long  before  and  which  she 
would  never  read.  She  was  staring  at  the  blank  columns 
of  black  and  white,  when  she  said  idly:  "Does  Mr.  Du 
pagny  seem — ill?  He  breakfasted?" 

"He  was  down  but  he  never  touched  anything."  The 
maid's  voice  was  dispirited.  Nothing  is  more  fatal  to 
service  than  a  master  and  mistress  without  appetite.  Emily 
took  up  the  uninviting  coffee  tray  and  abandoned  the  morn 
ing  duties.  "When  you  get  ready  to  go  out,  call  me,"  she 
said  defiantly. 

Rose  slipped  into  a  heavier  peignoir  and  took  a  mechanical 
survey  of  herself  in  the  cheval  mirror.  This  was  not  vanity, 
but  the  cold  appraisal  of  a  woman  whose  weapon  has  been 
beauty.  She  knew  that  other  things  had  failed  her  and 
she  wanted  to  see  if  this  asset  survived  the  sleepless  hours 
of  the  night. 


THE  THRESHOLD  235 

And  she  was  to  be  disappointed  in  this.  The  rose-colored 
garment  she  wore  did  not  conceal  the  sharp  and  pitiful 
outlines  of  her  form,  though  even  in  its  meagerness  it  was 
far  from  unlovely.  It  was  in  her  face  that  the  tragic 
alteration  had  been  wrought. 

Her  features  were  not  less  beautiful,  but  all  expression 
had  gone  from  her  face  except  a  fantastic  hunger,  rigid 
and  wondering.  Her  eyes  were  dry,  her  lips  were  dry  and 
parted.  .  .  .  She  dabbed  a  rouge  stick  across  them,  but 
it  only  accentuated  their  pallor;  rouge  could  not  blend 
with  the  drawn  outline,  and  in  disgust  she  drew  a  handker 
chief  across  her  scarlet  mouth.  The  stain  that  came  with 
it  was  hideous  and  nauseating  in  the  hot  sunshine  that 
flooded  the  room  and  she  flung  the  stained  rag  away. 
"What  can  I  say  to  him?"  she  wondered,  as  she  crossed 
the  hall  to  Dupagny's  room. 

He  was  still  sitting  on  the  bed,  and  he  looked  up  haggardly 
as  Rose  entered.  It  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  voluntarily 
come  into  that  room,  and,  remembering  this,  a  half  smile 
found  its  way  to  his  lips.  He  had  news  which  would 
pay  her  for  coming  at  last. 

"Are  you  going  away?"  she  asked,  looking  at  the  bags, 
the  scattered  papers,  everywhere  but  at  him. 

She  had  her  answer  in  the  look  he  gave  her,  cold,  de 
tached,  as  one  stranger  looks  at  another  because  of  unwar 
ranted  interest  in  his  affairs.  "Yes,  I  am  going  away,"  he 
said,  echoing  the  look,  as  though  words  meant  nothing. 

She  lingered  in  the  doorway,  not  knowing  whether  to  go 
or  stay.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  awkwardness  in  his 
presence  and  a  sense  of  fright.  He  did  not  ask  her  to  sit 
down,  nor  show  any  interest  in  her  presence  there,  but 
continued  to  sort  the  endless  letters,  stowing  some  away 
in  the  brief  case,  tossing  others  into  an  untidy  heap  on  the 


236  THE  THRESHOLD 

floor.  She  now  saw  that  a  steamer  trunk  had  been  dragged 
from  a  closet  and  that  all  of  his  clothes  were  hanging  about 
on  chairs  in  formless  heaps.  She  was  amazed  to  hear 
herself  saying  timidly:  "Perhaps  I  can  help  you!" 

He  paused  in  his  work  to  look  at  her,  then  began  unex 
pectedly  to  laugh.  She  was  frightened  and  made  a  move 
ment  to  go,  but  with  her  hand  on  the  doorknob  she  recov 
ered  her  courage. 

"Why  do  you  laugh  ?"  she  demanded  indignantly.  "What 
is  there  so  strange  in  having  help  from  me?" 

Dupagny  got  up,  holding  his  greasy  dressing-gown  about 
him  and  offered  an  elaborate  bow.  There  was  a  sort  of 
wildness  in  his  attitude;  his  face  was  a  little  mad.  "I  beg 
your  pardon.  It  was  the  spirit  in  which  your  offer  was 
made  which  caused  my  laughter.  A  sense  of  humor  may 
be  a  saving  grace;  on  the  other  hand  it  may  be  misin 
terpreted." 

Words  were  dragged  from  her  against  her  will.  "What 
spirit  should  I  have  but  a  desire  to  help  you — ?" 

"The  spirit  that  speeds  the  parting — husband,  should  I 
say  ?  But  my  dear  lady,  why  should  you  trouble  now  ?  My 
goings  and  returnings  have  not  disturbed  you  before  this !" 

She  wished  now  that  she  had  left  the  rouge  upon  her 
lips.  It  was  difficult  to  act  a  part  when  she  knew  herself 
at  such  disadvantage,  so  haggard,  so  distraught.  Dupagny 
was  watching  her  curiously,  his  attention  held  by  her  obvi 
ous  distress.  "Why  bother,  now?"  he  repeated,  dully. 

There  was  something  in  his  resignation  so  opposed  to  the 
sneering  reproach  of  his  earlier  speech  that  a  chord,  long 
mute  in  her  heart,  was  touched.  With  an  impulse  of  pity 
she  spoke  to  him  in  an  altered  tone.  "Larry,  where  are 
you  going?  Has  anything  happened?  What  does  this 
change  mean?" 


THE  THRESHOLD  237 

Dupagny  resumed  his  seat  upon  the  bed  and  clasped  one 
of  his  knees  between  his  hands.  The  dressing-gown  slipped 
aside  and  his  leg,  clad  in  pale  blue  silk,  was  exposed.  The 
delicate  color  was  faded  to  yellow  in  spots  from  careless 
washing  and  there  was  a  large,  frayed  rent  through  which 
his  bony  knee  protruded.  Nothing  could  have  accentuated 
the  demoralization  of  their  household  and  their  relation  as 
this  trivial  flaunting  of  neglect  betrayed  it.  He  had  for 
gotten  his  interest  in  packing  to  watch  her  face  change 
with  every  uncertain  thought  and  the  movement  of  her 
slender  body,  swaying  by  the  door,  uncertain  as  her 
thoughts.  He  smiled  when  he  saw  her  eyes  upon  the  torn 
garment  and  she  remembered  in  a  queer  kind  of  relief 
that  it  was  not  really  her  fault.  She  could  not  sew  and 
this  was  one  of  the  duties  that  belonged  to  the  maid,  who 
ever  she  was. 

After  a  long  pause  Dupagny  answered  her  repeated  ques 
tion,  but  with  deliberation,  as  though  the  time  had  come 
to  explain  everything  and  he  wished  to  make  his  words 
count.  "Much  has  happened,"  he  said,  gravely,  "and  the 
change  means,  in  a  few  words,  that  the  end  has  come." 

"You  mean  that  you  have  failed — " 

"Gone  to  smash.  Withrow  got  back  from  Colorado  this 
morning.  I  had  a  night  letter  from  him  and  he  followed 
immediately.  I  believe  he's  a  good  scout  after  all.  He 
wanted  to  give  me  a  chance  to  make  my  getaway  before  I 
met  him  and  the  other  stockholders.  He  knows  it's  a  clean 
loss.  They  can't  recover  anything  from  me.  The  boy 
dropped  twenty  thousand  himself,  but  he's  a  good  loser. 
He  doesn't  want  to  send  me  over  the  road." 

This  touched  her.  "Could  he  do  that?"  she  whispered. 
She  had  never  come  so  close  to  the  truth  before.  He  had 
always  lightly  concealed  the  thin  ice  from  her  careless  eyes 


238  THE  THRESHOLD 

and  she  had  never  known,  because  she  preferred  not  to 
know.  It  was  easier  to  take  what  had  come  so  easily,  with 
out  questioning'.  She  had  relied  on  Dupagny's  cleverness 
without  admitting  reliance  to  herself,  but  now  the  danger 
unfolded  like  a  sinister  script.  "Could  they  send  you  to 
prison?"  she  faltered. 

"For  twenty  years,"  he  responded  crisply;  then  smiled 
when  she  gave  a  little  cry.  "Ah,  that  hurts,  doesn't  it?  To 
be  known  as  the  wife  of  a  convict!  You  couldn't  stand 
notoriety  or  social  disgrace,  could  you,  Rose?" 

Her  eyes  drooped  in  spite  of  her  effort  to  face  the  taunt 
boldly.  "I  was  only  thinking  of  you.  It  would  be  impos 
sible  to  imagine  you  in  prison." 

"But  entirely  probable  if  I  don't  get  off  before  Withrow 
makes  his  report,"  he  said  dryly,  beginning  his  work  again 
in  a  matter-of-fact  way  that  made  her  excitement  seem 
exaggerated  and  ridiculous. 

Already  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  and  she  took 
a  few  hesitating  steps  into  the  room.  In  spite  of  the 
estrangement  which  had  endured  between  them  for  a  long 
time,  she  could  not  understand  this  ignoring  of  her  now. 
She  had  always  been  first,  and  a  lesser  position  with  him  was 
incredible.  She  had  taken  his  love  for  granted  for  so  long 
that  to  find  it  replaced  by  a  dull  indifference  puzzled  and 
diverted  her  from  her  train  of  thought. 

"And  what  of  me?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice  when  he 
did  not  speak.  "What  is  to  become  of  me  ?" 

It  was  the  moment  he  had  waited  for.  He  flung  it 
straight  at  her  quivering  lips.  "That  is  Cleve  Harkness' 
affair,  isn't  it  ...  not  mine,  any  longer." 

"Oh — "  she  shrunk  away,  hiding  her  face  in  the  curve  of 
her  arm  like  a  child  that  had  been  unfairly  struck. 

Dupagny's  chin  sunk  on  his  breast.     He  did  not  enjoy  his 


THE  THRESHOLD  239 

triumph  as  he  had  expected ;  after  all  his  words  had  fallen 
flatly  on  a  woman  who  could  not  strike  back.  When  he 
spoke  again  the  rancor  had  gone  from  his  voice. 

"I  need  not  have  said  that.  You'll  have  enough  to  suffer, 
poor  girl.  .  .  .  But  you  have  maddened  me.  .  .  ." 

She  began  to  sob.  His  softened  tone  did  not  heal  the 
•wound,  but  his  pity  brought  tears  to  both  their  eyes. 

"We  have  both  suffered — but  how  could  it  be  helped? 
We  do  not  make  ourselves." 

"No?  But  we  can  stop  when  we  see  ourselves  going 
wrong.  I  could  have  stopped  long  ago,  and  that  would  have 
saved  you.  It  has  not  all  been  your  fault — " 

His  sardonic  mood  was  laid  aside  like  a  silly  paper  mask, 
and  with  his  new  purpose  some  of  his  old  dignity  returned ; 
even  his  unshaven  face  ceased  to  be  repulsive.  He  began 
to  pace  the  floor  slowly,  passing  close  to  where  she  stood 
with  her  face  half  hidden. 

"I  will  tell  you  everything,"  he  said  presently,  in  a  labored 
voice,  as  though  he  dragged  the  words  from  some  unplumbed 
depths  of  his  spirit.  "I  am  starting  for  New  Orleans  to-day 
and  from  there  I  shall  take  ship  for  South  America.  Any 
boat  will  do.  Fugitives  cannot  choose  their  route.  The 
second  important  thing  I  have  to  say  is — I  do  not  go  alone." 
Seeing  her  uncontrollable  start,  the  shadow  of  his  abandoned 
mood  returned  to  play  for  a  moment  upon  his  features. 
"Not  you,"  he  corrected,  "another  woman." 

She  lifted  incredulous  eyes  to  follow  his  endless  progress 
back  and  forth. 

"Another  woman.  What  did  you  expect  ?  Did  you  think 
that  I  would  knock  forever  at  your  door?  Did  you  think 
that  your  cold  smile  that  could  warm  for  others  would  not 
chill  my  heart  until  some  day  it  would  seek  for  warmth 
itself  ?  Poor  little  Rose,  you  have  prided  yourself  on  know- 


240  THE  THRESHOLD 

ing  men  and  on  your  foolish  play  that  is  no  more  play  for 
you  than  for  other  women.  And  I  believe  you  have  lost,  my 
dear."  The  immeasurable  sadness  of  his  voice  robbed  his 
words  of  any  bitterness  they  might  have  held.  "It  is  very 
sweet  to  be  warm  when  you  have  been  out  in  the  cold  so 
long.  She  is  not  beautiful,  like  you,  but  she  cares!  By 
God,  she  must !  There  could  be  no  other  reason  for  throw 
ing  herself  away  on  a  hulk  like  me  .  .  .  ruined,  discredited, 
with  only  enough  to  get  to  another  country.  She  must  care  ! 
It's  miraculous.  And  she  is  young, — a  good  girl,  too." 

"It  is  the  girl  in  your  office,"  said  Rose,  in  a  flat  tone,  "I 
know.  She  looked  at  me  as  though  she  hated  me." 

"Perhaps.  Why  shouldn't  she  hate  you?  You  had 
everything,  and  had  thrown  away  everything  which  she 
would  have  given  her  life  for —  Just  as  I  hate  men  who 
have  opportunities  and  let  them  slip,  while  poor  devils  like 
me  sweat  and  suffer  and  lose  for  want  of  a  few  dollars 
and  somebody's  trust.  ...  I  haven't  been  dishonest, — it's 
only  that  I  didn't  have  enough  of  anything, — not  enough 
money,  or  credit,  or  confidence.  .  .  .  And  women  like  this 
girl  are  not  dishonest ;  they  only  take  what  other  women  toss 
away, — a  poor,  squeezed  carcass  that  they  believe  can  be 
built  up  again  .  .  .  the  best  they  can  get  for  their  poor 
charms.  .  .  .  They  want  a  man  and  babies, — and  women 
like  you  want  neither.  Why  shouldn't  they  have  what  they 
want  ?" 

Rose  was  unmoved  by  this.  She  felt  only  a  sullen  loath 
ing  for  the  unnamed  woman;  a  paradoxical  desire  to  con 
demn  her.  "It  is  she  who  told  you — "  she  said  coldly. 

"Right.  She  told  me  a  lot  about  you  and  Harkness. 
Malicious,  of  course,  but  feminine.  Naturally,  she  would 
fight.  But  she  is  not  to  blame  for  all  the  talk.  Your  own 
friends  have  helped  things  along." 


THE  THRESHOLD  241 

"And  you  are  leaving  me  for  this — this — woman !  You 
dare  to  tell  me  the  details  of  your  affair — you  have  discussed 
me  with  her?" 

"Only  when  it  could  not  be  helped.  .  .  .  Remember  she 
has  rights  as  well  as  yourself.  I  have  no  wish  to  hurt  you 
unnecessarily,  I  only  want  to  tell  you  what  you  will  hear 
from  every  one  to-morrow.  Come,  Rose,  we  are  not  chil 
dren.  Let  us  talk  this  over  calmly.  You  cannot  claim 
jealousy  or  the  role  of  the  wronged  wife  after  what  has 
been.  .  .  .  But  after  all,  this  is  unimportant.  It  is  the  cause 
behind  all  this  which  you  and  I  should  discuss.  Why 
should  this  be?  What  could  have  remedied  it?"  He  spoke 
musingly,  as  though  the  matter  were  impersonal,  concern 
ing  any  one  but  himself.  "I  think  if  we  had  based  marriage 
on  a  sounder  foundation  it  might  have  stood  the  wear  better. 
When  I  look  back  upon  what  has  passed  the  ceremony 
of  marriage  appears  to  be  merely  a  license  to  do  as  \ve 
pleased.  Nothing  sacred,  nothing  sacrificial.  .  .  .  God !" 
He  stopped  in  his  restless  walk,  f;,  ;inr;  her.  "What  did  we 
ever  think  of  but  easy  money ;  putting  it  over  on  our  friends, 
trimming  everybody  who  trusted  us  and  using  this  house 
and  its  popularity  as  a  trap  to  catch  our  flies?  What  sort 
of  a  foundation  was  that,  I  ask  you?  Built  upon  lies,  it 
couldn't  last.  Now  it's  falling,  Rose.  I'm  getting  out  and 
you  must  look  for  yourself,  my  girl !" 

"You  are  deserting  me!"  she  gasped,  struck  by  the  sig 
nificance  of  his  last  words.  "What  will  become  of  me?" 

"You  don't  trust  him,  then?" 

She  cried  out  at  the  insult  as  she  had  wept  before,  and 
Dupagny  was  astonished  at  her  emotion.  He  himself  had 
passed  beyond  the  delicacies  of  speech  into  the  bigger  issues. 
He  had  meant  no  taunt ;  it  seemed  to  him  the  simple  ques 
tioning  of  a  fact,  important  to  them  both,  and  her  passion 


242  THE  THRESHOLD 

appeared  both  fraudulent  and  childish  to  him.  "We  gain 
nothing  by  this !"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  impatience. 

She  no  longer  felt  the  inclination  to  tears.  The  crowded 
moments  left  no  time  for  consecutive  thinking.  She  saw 
herself  to-morrow,  crowned  with  the  shame  of  desertion, — • 
a  desertion  that  pierced  her  heart  as  well  as  her  pride.  How 
her  little  world  would  laugh !  Dupagny's  crimes  would  be 
overlooked  in  the  keen  appreciation  of  his  revenge.  But  as 
she  turned  away  her  head  did  not  droop  nor  her  shoulders 
bend.  The  rose-colored  peignoir  fell  in  straight  folds  from 
her  neck  to  the  floor;  her  lifted  chin  sent  a  curve  to  her 
hollowed  cheek.  In  her  complete  defeat  she  held  to  the  one 
thing  she  had  left;  in  her  destruction  she  did  not  lose  the 
dignity  that  belonged  to  her. 

"Rose !"  Dupagny  cried  as  she  reached  the  door.  His 
hand  closed  upon  hers  as  it  touched  the  knob.  She  saw 
the  sweat  upon  his  forehead  and  under  the  stubble  of  his 
lips.  He  repeated  her  name  in  sudden-born  anguish.  "It 
is  not  too  late !  Come  with  me,  Rose.  See,  the  tickets  are 
here, — you  can  go,  you  can  escape  it  all  if  you  wish.  I 
can't  give  you  up!  I  will  forgive  everything, — I  will  for 
get!" 

For  a  moment  a  ray  of  sweetness  swayed  her  heart.  He 
meant  that  to-morrow  she  might  be  far  away  from  all  this 
and  free  from  the  pain  that  ached  in  her  breast  eternally. 
So  far  away  that  even  she  might  learn  to  forget !  Then  as 
she  pictured  this,  her  eyes  met  his. 

"You  mean  that  I  -am  to  take  her  place  ?"  she  said  slowly. 

Desperate  passion  conquered  his  abasement.  "I  mean 
that,"  he  cried  fiercely,  "you  are  to  be  my  wife, — my  real 
wife,  mine  to  do  with  as  I  will  .  .  .  the  possession  they  call 
a  chattel.  Not  a  dressmaker's  dummy  or  a  plaything  for 
other  men  as  such  women  as  you  have  been  and  are.  .  .  . 


THE  THRESHOLD  243 

You  are  to  be  mine  utterly,  heart  and  mind,  body  and  soul, 
you  shall  belong  to  me  as  you  have  never  belonged  and  we 
will  build  upon  that  union,  which  is  the  only  ground  strong 
enough  to  hold  our  future.  .  .  ." 

She  was  afraid.  She  gave  a  low  scream  and  struck  at  -his 
hand,  freeing  her  own.  His  face.confronting  her  threatened 
her  with  abysses  of  degradation  that  were  like  dim  fantasies, 
too  frightful  to  be  seen  in  their  entirety.  She  saw  her  soul, 
stripped  of  its  secret  trappings,  suffering  in  his  brutal  grasp. 
All  this  was  in  her  eyes. 

"Then,  go!"  he  cried  with  an  oath  and  thrust  her  through 
the  door. 

She  was  in  her  own  room,  in  the  midst  of  the  staring  sun 
shine  with  the  unmade  bed  and  the  delicate,  untidy  finery 
lying  about.  She  looked  on  all  sides  of  her,  trying  to  recog 
nize  the  place  as  though  she  had  been  apart  from  it  for 
years. 

"I  can  die !"  she  whispered  with  her  closed  hands  shutting 
this  out,  "I  can  die!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SHORTLY  after  luncheon,  Cleve  Harkness  drove  his 
glittering  new  car  to  Mrs.  Miller's  door  and  asked  for 
Antonia.  The  machine  created  a  sensation  in  that  modest 
thoroughfare  if  the  owner  did  not,  though  he  came  in  for  his 
share  of  admiring  consideration.  There  were  few  who  did 
not  remember  when  he,  himself,  emerged  from  that  doorway 
to  make  his  way  with  -the  rest  of  the  humble  population  to 
the  corner  where  the  trolley  stopped.  The  new  car  owed 
its  importance  to  the  miserliness  of  poor  old  Saul,  buried 
weeks  ago,  with  all  his  piteous  economies  laid  bare  to  the 
world,  but  if  Cleve  could  claim  no  credit  for  such  posses 
sions  he  deserved  commendation  for  having  chosen  a  father 
who,  by  crucifying  his  son's  childhood,  managed  to  provide 
so  magnificently  for  his  maturity. 

The  morning  hours  had  been  full  of  annoyance  for  Cleve, 
for  following  Major  Bailey's  announcement  of  Antonia's  de 
parture  to  return  no  more,  came  the  knowledge  that  now  he 
must  face  the  issue  with  himself,  and  he  had  been  indulged 
by  chance  for  so  long  that  it  irked  him  unreasonably  to  be 
asked  to  make  a  choice  of  two  courses  without  time  for 
deliberation.  Then  in  the  midst  of  this  came  the  summons 
he  dreaded, — the  voice  of  Rose  Dupagny,  calling  tremulously 
across  the  wire.  She  said  very  little,  but  he  gained  an  im 
pression  of  the  trouble  in  which  she  was  turning  to  him. 

He  promised  to  call  upon  her  later  in  the  day,  and  this 
promise,  made  to  a  woman  who  refused  to  step  out  of  his 

244 


THE  THRESHOLD  245 

life  when  the  time  arrived  for  her  exit,  had  its  influence  in 
bringing  his  decision  to  a  close.  He  began  to  be  angry  at 
the  unconscious  part  she  played  in  his  day.  When  he  saw 
her  he  would  have  taken  the  irrevocable  step;  then  she 
would  be  helpless  to  affect  him,  except  as  she  injured  her 
self.  His  quick  mind  seized  upon  and  executed  a  program 
that  would  advertise  his  stand  to  the  world,  and  his  call  at 
the  Thelma  Avenue  house  was  the  first  move  in  a  rapid 
sequence  of  acts  that,  he  believed,  would  relieve  him  forever 
of  unwanted  ties. 

Antonia  came  down,  pale  and  starry  eyed,  in  answer  to 
the  summons.  In  her  heart  she  had  longed  for  the  justifica 
tion  of  his  coming,  and  now  to  find  him  anxiously  awaiting 
her  was  dear  relief  and  consolation. 

Cleve  himself  was  pale  and  there  was  an  unwonted  gravity 
upon  his  features  which  erased  somewhat  the  boyishness 
and  exuberant  youth  that  was  so  much  of  his  charm. 

Major  Bailey,  describing  Antonia's  dismissal,  had  taken 
a  fussy  delight  in  the  communication,  seeing  in  it  a  check 
mate  to  the  upstart  who  had  made  half  the  women  in  Cress- 
ton  mad  about  him.  But  Cleve  saw  far  more  in  the  cir 
cumstance  than  this.  He  read  in  it  a  determination  on 
Peter's  part  to  force  him  into  the  open,  for  he  knew  that 
Antonia  would  now  expect  his  championship  as  she  had  the 
right  to  expect  it,  and  that  if  he  was  to  keep  her  love  he 
must  not  withhold  this  right.  He  had  not  yet  encountered 
Peter,  nor  had  he  sought  him  out  for  he  felt  the  conviction 
that  a  meeting  between  them  then  would  be  to  Peter's  ad 
vantage, — and  he  meant  to  be  triumphant  when  he  next 
saw  the  man  who  had  been  his  friend  and  was  now  his 
enemy. 

He  asked  Antonia  to  drive  with  him  for  half  an  hour 
and  she  accepted  the  invitation  without  reflecting  that  in  tak- 


246  THE  THRESHOLD 

ing  the  seat  beside  him  she  was  creating  consternation,  de 
light,  and  envy  among  those  who  watched  the  progress  of 
the  automobile  from  the  vantage  of  curtained  windows. 
Without  knowing  it  Antonia  had  crossed  the  Rubicon  that 
separates  the  persecuted  working  girl  from  the  willing  victim. 
It  depended  now  upon  her  alone,  which  station  she  would 
occupy  in  the  mind  of  the  public. 

But  Cleve  knew.  He  had  deliberately  chosen  this  method 
of  announcing  his  loyalty  to  her.  With  a  sort  of  cynical 
satisfaction  he  drove  straight  to  the  Penclleton  house  which 
was  now  the  Harkness  house,  and  stopped  before  it.  The 
place  was  slowly  assuming  a  new  character.  Men  were 
busy  demolishing  the  overgrowths  of  the  grounds,  and,  in 
and  about  the  house,  carpenters  and  painters  were  at  work, 
tearing  down  and  rebuilding.  The  shutters  were  no  longer 
closed.  Light  and  air  and  sunshine  were  penetrating  to  the 
frozen  heart  of  the  deep  rooms  from  whidi  the  garden  bench 
and  the  green  painted  chairs  had  been  banished.  But  in 
spite  of  this  new  freedom  the  uncurtained  windows  bore  a 
look  of  desolation,  mute  and  tragic,  as  if  they  now  gazed 
with  open  yearning  for  those  who  would-  never  return. 

"We  will  be  happy  here,"  said  Cleve,  as  if  he  stated  a  fact 
that  was  familiar  to  both.  "That  will  be  your  room, 
Antonia,  the  one  that  extends  over  the  drive.  In.  summer 
there  are  a  million  roses  on  that  trellis  underneath,  and  when 
you  wake  in  the  morning  you  can  step  out  on  that  little 
balcony  and  choose  the  color  you  love  the  most.  I  hope  it 
will  always  be-  red.  I  want  you  always  to  wear  brilliant 
colo'rs, — you  have  had  enough  of  gray." 

He*r  face  had  color  enough  to  please  him  then,  but  her 
eyes  lost  their  starry  look  and  she  did  not  smile  under  the 
half  serious,  half  playful  raillery  of  his  voice.  It  was  not 
the  setting  which  any  woman  would  have  chosen  for  the 


THE  THRESHOLD  247 

important  love  scene  of  her  life,  and  Antonia  was  not  dif 
ferent  from  her  sisters.  A  strip  of  pavement  and  lawn 
alone  separated  them  from  the  hearing  of  a  dozen  workmen; 
people  were  passing  along  the  street,  some  of  them  looking 
with  open  curiosity  at  the  splendid  new  car,  and  the  two 
young  people  in  it,  sitting  before  the  Pendleton  place. 
Many  of  these  passers-by  knew  Cleve,  and  a  few  recognized 
Antonia  as  old  Roscoe  Christy's  daughter,  and  all  of  them 
smiled  and  conjectured  over  the  absorption  of  the  pair. 

"We'll  live  all  our  lives  here,"  said  Cleve.  "That  old 
place  will  stand  for  ages.  By  Jove,  I  must  order  a  new 
stone  for  the  front." 

Against  the  curb  was  the  gray,  furrowed  block  from  which 
the  name  was  almost  erased,  and  which  had  been  used  by 
Pendleton  ladies  of  bygone  years  as  a  mounting  block  to 
help*  their  mincing  feet  to  the  carriage  step. 

"Except  for  the  look  of  the  thing,  I'd  not  have  another," 
mused  Cleve,  "but  it  gives  a  sort  of  dignity.  I'll  have 
'Harkness'  cut  so  deeply  that  it  will  never  wear  away." 
Suddenly  he  turned  to  Antonia,  and  took  her  hands.  There 
was  a  look  that  approached  exaltation  on  his  face.  He 
looked  deep  into  her  eyes,  reaching  to  her  spirit  through  the 
material  folds  that  separated  them.  "Our  children  will  play 
among  these  trees,  Antonia.  They  will  run  through  that 
house  and  over  this  grass.  They  will  not  be  afraid  or  cold 
or  ashamed.  .  .  .  They  will  love  us  and  we  will  love  each 
other  in  each  of  them — " 

Antonia  closed  her  eyes  with  a  slight  sensation  of  shock. 
Her  head  whirled  a  little  as  though  she  had  been  looking 
at  some  dazzling  object.  The  swift  alteration  of  their  in 
tangible  relationship  and  the  ruthless  tone  of  Cleve's  mas 
terful  statements  snatched  her  fancies  from  girlish  dreams 
and  thrust  her  remorselessly  into  reality  that  dazzled  with 


248  THE  THRESHOLD 

its  procession  of  possible  events.  She  was  conscious  of  an 
indefinable  repulsion  so  incomplete  that  to  call  it  by  such  a 
name  was  unfair.  She  was  bewildered  by  her  inability  to 
share  his  mood ;  it  was  as  if  she  had  failed  him  without 
knowing  why,  in  something  that  was  his  best, — offered  to 
her  and  rejected,  why,  she  could  not  say. 

Cleve  was  disappointed,  too.  His  exaltation  had  fallen 
flat,  and  he  missed  the  sympathy  he  confidently  expected. 
But  in  a  moment  his  natural  conceit  asserted  himself  and 
he  attributed  her  lack  of  response  to  the  convenient  excuse 
of  girlish  shyness.  This  reflection  helped  to  heal  whatever 
hurt  he  knew  and  in  the  end  created  an  added  tenderness  in 
his  feeling  for  her.  She  was  not  like  other  women,  he 
knew,  nor  did  he  wish  her  to  be. 

The  new  car  slipped  easily  along  the  smooth  pavement. 
Not  all  of  Cresston's  streets  were  asphalted,  but  the  main 
arteries  were  in  as  perfect  condition  as  the  state  of  public 
finances  permitted,  though  the  little  side  streets,  where  less 
important  people  lived,  were  left  to  smother  in  dust  until  a 
fresh  impetus  was  given  to  taxation.  There  had  never  been 
enough  money  and  now  that  money  promised  to  be  forth 
coming  from  a  subdued  public,  there  was  no  labor  to  be  had. 
Here  and  there  were  barred  streets,  with  signs  forbidding 
passage  placed  in  front  of  them,  and  piles  of  rock  and 
gravel  and  idle  engines,  all  dust  covered.  There  was  small 
pleasure  to  be  found  in  driving  about  Cresston,  but  in  the 
country  were  long,  pleasant,  tree-shaded  vistas  where  lovers 
could  be  alone. 

Cleve  remembered  too  late  that  he  would  be  forced  to 
pass  the  Dupagny  house  unless  he  retreated  ignominiously. 
This  he  would  not  do.  The  car  was  so  new  that  possibly 
Rose  had  not  seen  it  and  it  might  pass  unnoticed.  And 


THE  THRESHOLD  249 

even  if  she  saw  them  together,  so  much  the  better — it  would 
make  the  explanation  to  come  later  much  easier. 

And  Rose  did  see  them.  She  had  been  waiting  for  -him 
since  one  o'clock  and  though  it  was  then  barely  three,  cen 
turies  seemed  to  have  passed.  "Surely  he  will  not  fail  me 
now,  when  I  have  asked  for  his  pity,"  she  thought,  when 
she  heard  his  voice,  cool  and  reasonable,  answering  her  own. 
She  fancied  that  already  the  whole  town  knew  of  Laurence 
Dupagny's  defalcation,  and  that  he  had  gone,  leaving  her 
behind,  taking  with  him  another  woman  to  share  his  exile. 
In  telephoning  Cleve  she  had  obeyed  an  impulse  half  hyster 
ical,  half  desperate.  Her  pride  had  been  so  beaten  down 
that  she  could  make  even  this  humiliation  serve  as  an  excuse 
for  claiming  his  attention. 

Dupagny  left  the  house  shortly  after  their  talk  without 
seeing  her  again.  Locked  in  her  room,  she  listened  to  his 
lagging  feet  descending  the  stairs  and  from  her  window  saw 
an  angle  of  the  taxicab  which  waited  to  take  him  to  the  sta 
tion.  It  was  ironical  that  she  could  see  only  the  engine  of 
the  car,  and  that  Dupagny's  haggard  look,  directed  at  her 
window,  failed  to  reach  her. 

When  the  noise  of  the  motor  was  lost  in  the  noise  of 
other  passing  vehicles,  Rose  turned  back  to  her  room  with 
a  rebounding  sense  of  freedom. 

This  experience,  then,  was  ended.  She  was  a  deserted 
wife,  widowed,  as  the  law  would  not  hesitate  to  declare  her, 
when  the  extent  of  Dupagny's  misbehavior  became  known. 
Her  swift  revulsion  of  feeling  was  false  and  misleading,  as 
hope  mounted  in  her  heart.  The  mere  fact  of  Dupagny's 
absence,  which  destroyed  the  tie  between  them  forever, 
helped  to  dissipate  the  depression  which  had  become  un 
bearable. 


250  THE  THRESHOLD 

It  was  in  this  unnatural  state  of  exhilaration  that  she  sum 
moned  confidence  to  telephone  to  Cleve,  but  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice  her  spurious  courage  deserted  her  and  she  fell  to 
trembling  so  that  her  voice  was  husky  and  full  of  tears  when 
she  stammered :  "Come  to  me.  I  need  you." 

She  called  to  the  servant  who,  after  the  manner  of  her 
kind,  was  preparing  to  vanish  at  the  warning  of  disaster. 
At  the  last  Dupagny  had  grudgingly  paid  her  overdue 
wages,  and,  softened  by  this,  she  was  ready  to  champion  the 
cause  she  had  insulted  that  morning.  She  obeyed  the  sum 
mons  of  her  mistress,  but  stood  sullenly  in  the  door,  poised 
for  flight,  if  she  should  be  asked  to  perform  an  unwelcome 
task. 

"There  will  be  a  caller  presently,"  said  Rose.  "Will  you 
see  that  the  living-room  is  in  order, — it  is  Mr.  Harkness,  and 
you  are  to  admit  no  one  else." 

The  woman  smiled  knowingly.  Her  stay  in  the  house  had 
been  short,  but  she  had  made  friends  with  neighboring  ser 
vants  and  they  had  not  left  her  in  ignorance  of  what  they 
called  "the  goings-on"  of  her  lady. 

"Will  Mr.  Dupagny  be  away  long?"  she  asked  insolently. 
She  believed  that  the  wife  was  taking  instant  advantage  of 
the  disappearance  of  her  husband  to  arrange  for  a  meeting 
with  her  lover,  and  in  her  tone  was  both  contempt  and 
familiarity. 

Rose  twinged  beneath  the  question.  She  could  not  read 
what  was  in  the  other's  mind  and  she  thought  that  already 
some  inkling  of  the  truth  had  penetrated  even  to  this 
ignorant  creature.  This  was  the  first  gibe,  or  so  she  thought, 
and  she  schooled  herself  to  answer  as  she  would  be  expected 
to  answer  on  a  thousand  occasions. 

"He  has  gone  on  a  long  trip,"  she  explained  simply. 

But  she  saw  that  Emily  was  not  interested  in  her  reply. 


THE  THRESHOLD  251 

The  insolent  eyes  were  searching  the  room,  prying  into 
closets  that  were  filled  with  dainty  clothing;  making  an  in 
ventory  of  the  rows  of  shoes  and  slippers  and  the  hats  upon 
their  pegs.  Suddenly  she  remembered  that  money  must  be 
owing  this  servant  as  it  was  to  every  one,  and  this  had  the 
effect  of  dampening  her  spirits  for  a  moment.  Until  now 
the  thought  of  money  had  not  presented  itself  in  its  various 
guises,  and  she  was  instantly  aware  of  the  necessity  of 
placating  the  claimant  in  the  doorway.  She  could  not  be 
left  alone  in  the  house,  and  there  was  no  one  she  could1  ask 
to  stay  with  her. 

There  was  very  little  money  left  in  -her  purse.  Later  this 
would  be  remedied.  With  the  optimism*  which  Dupagny  had 
taught  her,  she  trusted  to  a  supply  from  unrealized  sources, 
but  this  did  not  supply  the  present  need;  and  she  had  a  wist 
ful  desire  to  right  herself  in  this  girl's  eyes ;  the  witness  to 
her  humiliation  and  ignominy. 

A  dark  blue  cape  with  a  deep  squirrel  collar  hung  at  the 
door  of  the  closet.  She  took  this  garment  from  its  hook, 
and  folded  it  in  long  soft  lengths.  Rose  loved  all  her  clothes 
and  this  cape  had  been  a  favorite. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  have  not  the  money  for  your  wages," 
she  said  gently,  "but  perhaps  this  will  satisfy  you.  It  is 
nearly  new  and  worth  very  much  more  than  the  sum  owing 
to  you." 

The  girl  was  taken  aback ;  she  had  not  suspected  that  the 
trouble  between  her  employers  had  reached  this  extent,  but 
she  was  quick  to  see  and  seize  her  advantage.  The  closets 
were  full  of  beautiful  garments,  many  of  them  much  more 
to  her  taste  than  the  dark  blue  duvetyn  cape.  She  permitted 
her  insolence  to  increase  as  she  looked  at  Rose  and  her 
offering. 

"You  needn't  expect  me  to  take  your  wornout  duds  in 


252  THE  THRESHOLD 

place  of  my  good  money,"  she  began  loudly.  "If  I'm  to 
take  secondhand  clothes  for  my  wages,  I'll  take  something 
worth  while.  That  purple  suit  there,  an'  some  of  your  silk 
underclothes,  an'  stockin's  might  suit  me,  if  you  want  to  do 
the  right  thing." 

Rose  turned  away.  "Take  them,"  she  said  in  a  frozen 
voice. 

When  she  was  gone,  bearing  her  spoils,  Rose  had  a  re 
turn  of  her  depression.  She  now  saw  how  impossible  it 
would  be  to  live  on  in  the  town  which  was  to  witness  her 
complete  downfall.  She  would  have  to  go  somewhere,  to 
some  large  city,  Chicago  or  New  York,  and  hide  herself 
among  strangers  for  a  time.  Yet  how  could  she  go  when 
she  had  no  money  ?  There  were  only  the  furnishings  of  the 
house  left  and  these  would  have  to  be  sold  before  she  could 
escape.  It  was  about  this  she  meant  to  talk  to  Cleve  when 
he  came.  She  was  determined  to  talk  sanely  to  him  that 
afternoon.  There  would  be  no  tears,  no  reproaches.  Al 
ready  there  had  been  too  much  of  both. 

While  she  dressed  she  rehearsed  speeches  in  which  she 
was  once  more  the  self-contained,  delicately  cynical  Rose 
Dupagny  who  had  ruled  her  friends  daintily.  .  .  .  The  little 
play  was  successful  except  when  she  thought:  "It  may  be 
for  the  last  time — the  last  time.  Perhaps  directly  afterward 
I  shall  go  away.  Surely  we  could  not  part  upon  such  terms 
as  these !" 

She  made  a  careful  toilette.  Excitement  brought  back 
some  of  her  beauty  and  softened  her  features  with  a  natural 
glow.  She  applied  the  rouge  delicately,  disguising  it  with 
careful  little  strokes  and  blending  it  into  her  skin  with  other 
creams  and  powders.  She  wore  a  different  face  than  the 
one  which  had  met  Dupagny  that  morning  .  .  .  now  such 
ages  ago.  She  had  not  tried  to  be  beautiful  then,  and  it  was 


THE  THRESHOLD  253 

not  her  beauty  which  he  had  tried  to  hold.  She  shuddered, 
remembering  her  parting  with  him. 

She  chose  her  prettiest,  gayest  frock  to  wear  that  after 
noon  ;  she  was  determined  to  carry  out  the  role  she  had 
chosen  to  play,  and  experience  had  taught  her  the  long 
heralded  lesson  that  men  dread  and  dislike  tears  and  gloom 
in  a  woman — even  in  a  deserted  woman.  Her  gown  was  a 
delicate  color  and  she  chose  pale  gray  satin  slippers  to  wear 
with  it.  When  she  was  dressed  she  looked  like  a  gorgeous 
gold  and  crimson  poppy  swaying  on  a  pale  green  stem,  for 
all  her  exotic  beauty  had  rushed  to  her  aid.  The  triumph 
of  recapturing  it  elated  her  extravagantly;  only  her  hands 
were  cold  and  she  shivered  now  and  then.  It  was  autumn, 
and,  though  the  Indian  summer  sun  outside  held  burning 
heat,  the  shaded  house  was  chilled  with  the  premonition  of 
winter. 

As  Rose  left  her  room  and  went  down  the  shallow  stair 
she  left  behind  her  an  impression  of  finality ;  she  might  have 
been  leaving  the  shelter  of  her  door  forever.  An  impulse 
had  caused  her  to  lock  both  the  lonely  rooms  staring  emptily 
across  the  hall  at  one  another.  To-morrow  she  would  begin 
the  tasks  of  packing  and  dismantling  the  house,  but  to-day 
she  wanted  its  secrets  to  sleep  behind  closed  doors. 

Downstairs  the  darkened  living-room  smelled  of  dust  and 
stale  flowers,  and  Rose,  remembering  it  as  it  had  been,  could 
not  bring  herself  to  enter  the  place.  When  Cleve  came  they 
would  open  the  windows,  but  she  shrunk  from  facing  the 
ghost  of  departed  happiness  alone.  There  was  no  better 
place  to  pass  the  moments  before  he  came  and  she  went 
hesitatingly  into  the  deep  porch  that  was  still  shaded  by 
wistaria  vines,  approaching  dissolution  like  all  the  green  life 
out  of  doors,  but  with  form  enough  still  to  shield  her  vigil. 

People  were  passing;  cars  were  rushing  back  and  forth, 


254  THE  THRESHOLD 

but  none  brought  Cleve,  though  it  was  past  the  hour  he  had 
promised  to  come.  Miss  Ethel  Plumey  in  a  new  fall  cos 
tume  strolled  past  and,  seeing  Rose  standing  there,  yielded 
to  the  temptation  of  speaking  to  her.  An  hour  before  she 
had  received  the  first  hint  of  the  freshest  Cresston  scandal, 
the  elopement  of  Laurence  Dupagny  with  his  office  girl, — an 
unknown  person  who  suddenly  became  famous.  Miss 
Plumey  could  not  forbear  sounding  Rose  upon  this  subject, 
and,  in  learning  how.  much  her  one  time  friend  knew  and 
suffered,  became  herself  the  purveyor  of  added  sensation. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Rose  hastened  down  the  walk 
to  meet  her,  in  dreadful  fear  that  she  had  become  telepath- 
ically  aware  of  Cleve's  intended  visit.  She  would  have  re 
fused  had-  she  dared,  or  taken  refuge  in  the  house,  but  she 
knew  how  futile  this  would  be.  Miss  Plumey  could  not  be 
disposed  of  in  this  fashion  and  would  not  have  scrupled  to 
follow,  prying  with  her  protruding  pale  eyes  until  she  had 
learned  everything. 

But  when  the  two  women  met  there  was  no  sign  of  this 
derangement  upon  their  faces.  Their  greetings  were  as 
insincere,  as  casual  as  they  had  ever  been.  When  this  had 
passed,  Miss  Plumey  said,  "What  a  shame  you  couldn't  go 
with  your  husband  upon  his  wonderful  trip.  How  could 
you  bear  to  miss  it  ?" 

Rose  answered:  "I  loathe  traveling.  And  we  are  not 
rich.  We  couldn't  do  it  as  it  sh'ould  be  done." 

"Luckily  all  women  are  not  so  particular.  Are  you  quite, 
quite  sure  it  was  safe  to  let  him1  go  so'  far  away,  quite 
alone?" 

Rose  was  still  brave  enough  to  battle  with  an  adversary 
like  this. 

"You  can  never  tell  about  men, — especially  husbands.  It 
is  best  not  to  inquire  too  closely." 


THE  THRESHOLD  255 

She  managed  to  rid  herself  of  her  tormentor  after  what 
seemed  an  age,  and  returned  to  the  wistaria  screen.  Miss 
Plumey  had  left  the  sting  of  bitterness  behind  her,  and  the 
excitement  of  anticipation  was  fading  into  the  familiar,  dull 
torture  of  suspense.  The  chill  of  the  house  followed  her 
into  the  brilliant  sunshine.  She  shivered. 

A  flashing  automobile,  startling  in  newness  of  varnish, 
glittering  trimmings,  low  and  luxurious,  rolled  noiselessly 
past.  The  man  and  woman  who  occupied  it  were  almost 
hidden  by  the  cramped  windshield  and  the  low,  flat  hood. 
The  machine  gave  an  impression  of  attempting  to  slip  past 
unnoticed,  almost  with  guilt,  as  a  dishonest  man  evades  his 
creditor. 

But  Rose's  eyes,  quick  with  pain,  unbelieving,  yet  stricken 
with  belief,  were  not  to  be  denied.  Nothing  could*  hide  him 
from  her,  not  distance  or  movement,  or  the  impossible*  vision 
of  another  woman  between  them. 

He  was  not  coming.  He  had  forgotten  or  he  had  done 
this  with  intention  or  unwittingly!  Her  mind  leaped  to  a 
hundred  conjectures,  all  equally  unreal  and  filled  with  un 
speakable  pain. 

Another  woman !  At  the  hour  when  he  should  have  been 
with  her,  he  had  chosen  to  be  with  another  woman, — some 
one  who  held  and  charmed  him  as  she  had  done  one  time. 
She  needed  no  second  glance  to  assure  her  that  it  was  Cleve, 
— but  she  could  not  be  certain  of  his  companion  though  the 
outline  of  the  drooping  head  beneath  the  simple  hat  was 
vaguely  familiar.  She  ran  forward  a  few  steps,  forgetting 
that  she  herself  might  be  seen,  to  gaze  searchingly  after  the 
disappearing  car. 

Strangely  enough  she  lost  the  familiar  sense  of  pain  for 
the  time  in  the  overwhelming  desire  to  see  their  faces.  .  .  . 
If  she  could  meet  them  face  to  face,  let  them  see  her  scorn, 


256  THE  THRESHOLD 

her  indifference!  She  felt  oddly  lifted  above  the  ordinary 
emotions  of  jealousy  and  despair.  Her  heart  was  wrung 
dry  of  everything  but  curiosity ;  she  was  as  curious  as  Ethel 
Plumey ! 

But  the  car  was  gone  and  she  was  left  stranded  upon  the 
dreary  porch  with  the  empty  house  behind  her.  No  use  to 
wait,  he  would  not  come  now !  Her  mind,  unnaturally  clear, 
leaped  to  a  remedy  for  this.  It  was  possible  to  see  them 
again  if  she  ran  very  fast ! 

Two  blocks  further  the  paving  was  being  repaired  and 
he  must  turn  into  one  of  the  side  streets.  There  was  a 
succession  of  vacant  lots  which  she  could  cross  to  reach  a 
high  bank  from  which  she  could  gain  a  long  and  unob 
structed  view.  If  the  car  made  slow  progress  she  could 
intercept  it  here. 

In  frantic  haste,  her  whole  body  strained  and  palpitating 
with  the  violent  desire  to  reach  the  bank,  she  ran  through 
the  shabby  street  behind  her  own  house,  leaving  the  uncer 
tain  sidewalk  to  run  in  the  edge  of  the  street  itself.  But 
with  all  her  effort  she  made  little  progress.  The  high,  deli 
cate  heels  of  her  slippers  turned,  threatening  to  throw  her ; 
the  satin  strained  and  cut  keenly  into  her  flesh.  Obstruc 
tions  came  into  her  way, — little  things,  such  as  fallen 
branches  and  round  pebbles, — playthings  of  the  wind  and  of 
the  astounded  children  who  gazed  wonderingly  after  her 
flight.  A  violent  pain  began  in  her  side  and  scorched  her 
body  from  shoulder  to  thigh.  .  .  .  She  came  to  the  vacant 
lots  at  last  and  here  a  narrow  trail,  ankle  deep  in  dust,  led 
straight  to  the  high  bank.  The  burning  summer  had 
stripped  the  place  of  grass  and  now  it  was  arid  and  desolate, 
but  the  path  marked  a  wavering  line.  She  ran  along  this 
path,  letting  her  light  dress  trail  about  her  unheeded.  Her 
hands  were  outstretched,  her  lips  slightly  parted. 


THE  THRESHOLD  257 

The  bank  was  there  in  front  of  her,  but  the  path  ended 
at  its  base.  There  was  no  foothold  but  that  which  she 
could  make  herself  in  the  brown,  unfriendly  earth.  Hold 
ing  to  dead  grass  roots ;  on  her  knees,  stumbling,  slipping, 
but  making  a  sort  of  progress,  she  stood  on  the  bank  at  last. 
It  was  a  dreary  place,  covered  with  upthrown  debris,  broken 
bottles  and  discarded  tins.  Summer  had  survived  here  a 
little  longer  than- on  the  ground  below,  for  long,  dead  gray 
grasses  waved  mournfully  in  the  freshening  breeze  and 
helped  to*  hide  the  desolation  beneath. 

The  street  beyond  stretched  like  a  smooth  pale  river,  and, 
as  she*  gained  her  footing,  the  glittering  car  was  just  passing 
with  slow,  and  insolent  leisure.  In  a  moment  its  speed  in 
creased  ...  it  was  gone.  .  .  .  The  faces  in  the  car  eluded 
her  as  before. 

She  turned  to  retrace  the  way  she  had  come,  forgetful  of 
the  figure  she  made  outlined  against  the  sky.  She  looked  at 
the  dizzying  thread  of  path  across  the  lots  far  beneath  her; 
then  at  the  descent  which  now  seemed  sheer  and  precipitous, 
yet  inevitable.  From  this  to  her  swollen  feet,  which  had  be 
gun  to  burn  and  torture  her.  The  little  gray  slippers  were 
twisted  and  broken;  the  delicate  satin  burst  and  frayed. 
The  soles  rasped  with  sand  and  minute  pebbles  and  her 
thin  stockings  were  in  rags,  inadequate  to  protect  her  flesh 
from  a  thousand  fierce  stings  of  weed  and  pollen.  She  be 
gan  to  climb  down  the  bank  and  to  do  this  she  had  to  use 
her  hands  to  hold  on  as  she  slipped  lower  and  lower,  some 
times  with  her  face  against  the  earth.  Finally  this  was  over 
and  she  stood  again  in  the  open  ground,  ankle  deep  in  the 
asronv  of  the  dust. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CLEVE  and  Antonia  did  not  prolong  their  drive  into  the 
country.  Poor  Rose  would  have  been  spared  some  of 
her  despair  if  she  had  seen  them  turn  back  after  a  half  hour 
spent  in  the  silence  which  had  submerged  their  earlier  hap 
piness.  Antonia's  mood  was  a  strange  one.  To  her  moods 
were  simple  phases  of  sorrow  and  joy  and  she  did  not 
analyze  them. 

And  Cleve  in  mystification  found  himself  influenced  by 
her  silence  until  he,  too,  fell  silent,  and  by  unspoken  con 
sent  turned  the  glittering  car,  which  had  been  unable  to 
communicate  its  magnificent  satisfaction  to  them,  in  the 
direction  of  home. 

In  Thelma  Avenue  the  sensation  of  their  departure  had 
not  been  dissipated.  Those  who  depart  must  return,  and 
spectators  who  had  not  witnessed  the  beginning  were  on 
hand  to  see  the  end.  Cleve  was  annoyed  by  the  invisible, 
staring  eyes  which  he  knew  were  looking  at  them. 

"Thank  God,  we  shan't  have  much  more  of  this !"  he  said, 
as  he  opened  the  door  for  her. 

Antonia  asked  him  to  come  in  and  speak  to  her  mother, 
but  he  begged  off  with  a  hurried  and  negative  excuse.  The 
raw  edge  of  his  nerves  would  not  be  improved  by  Mrs. 
Christy's  conversation,  and  for  the  last  ten  minutes  he  had 
been  thinking  of  the  appointment  with  Rose  which  he  had 
evaded  and  forgotten.  He  decided  that  this  must  not  be  put 
off  any  longer  and  with  his  ugly  mood  growing  upon  him  he 
resolved  to  see  Rose  before  further  time  passed. 

258 


THE  THRESHOLD  259 

His  love  for  Antonia  was  as  unselfish  as  any  impulse  he 
had  ever  known  and  for  the  moment  was  strong  enough  to 
assert  its  importance  over  his  self-contemplation.  As  they 
were  about  to  part  he  returned  to  her  side  and  blindly 
reached  for  her  hands,  unconscious  of  the  publicity  of  their 
station.  She  was  startled  by  the  intensity  of  his  action  but 
when  she  looked  up  she  read  something  in  his  eyes,  so 
changed  from  the  gay  confidence  she  knew,  that  to  question 
his  design  was  impossible. 

"Antonia,  do  you  love  me  ?" 

Unlike  any  lover  who  ever  existed,  he  had  never  asked 
this  question  before.  He  had  taken  her  love  for  granted  as 
he  took  everything  that  came  to  him.  And  Antonia  had 
taken  it  for  granted,  as  well.  But  now,  hearing  it  put  into 
irrevocable  words,  she  was  suddenly  dismayed.  Love  was 
so  final.  She  sent  him  a  startled  glance  and  drew  away, 
not  answering,  and  this  broke  the  spell.  He  laughed,  tossed 
her  a  gay,  affectionate  smile  and  ran  down  the  steps  to  his 
car. 

He  was  not  offended  by  Antonia's  coldness  or  lack  of  re 
sponse.  Instead  it  increased  his  pride  and  his  extraordinary 
satisfaction  in  possessing  her.  Her  coldness  fed  his  desire 
and  withdrawal  emphasized  her  importance  in  his  eyes.  The 
easy  capitulation  of  the  class  which  he  had  believed  so  im 
portant  had  completed  a  readjustment  of  his  judgments. 
He  was  now  able  to  see  that  men  and  women  are  merely 
men  and  women,  in  any  case,  and  that  his  conquest  of 
Antonia  Christy  was  worth  far  more  than  the  conquest  of 
another  woman  whose  fancy  had  been  given  elsewhere  be 
fore  his  coming.  It  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  had 
put  Antonia  upon  the  pedestal  which  is  the  inalienable  right 
of  about-to-be-married  mankind ;  no  one  would  ever  occupy 
that  enviable  position  quite  as  he  occupied  it,  but  he  was  con- 


260  THE  THRESHOLD 

tented  that  Antonia  should  reserve  her  emotions  until  she 
belonged  exclusively  to  him.  In  that  way  she  became  more 
precious,  more  exclusive. 

Thinking  of  these  things,  he  turned  his  car  unwillingly 
in  the  direction  of  Armitage  Street.  He  would  see  Rose,  if 
only  for  five  minutes,  but  his  resolution  to  tell  her  the  truth 
began  to  fade  into  uncertainty.  He  excused  himself  for  this 
weakness  on  the  score  of  Laurence  Dupagny's  catastrophe. 
Like  every  one  else  he  had  heard  an  incomplete  rumor  of 
this  and  believed  himself  charitable  and  kind  in  sparing  the 
woman  additional  worry.  He  had  been  so  far  from  really 
loving  Rose  that  he  was  incapable  of  estimating  the  actual 
part  he  had  played  in  her  tragedy.  He  already  thought  of 
himself  in  the  guise  of  a  sympathizing  friend,  offering  con 
solation  for  a  disaster  he  was  powerless  to  modify. 

But  his  stop  at  the  Dupagny  house  was  without  result,  for 
though  he  found  the  door  ajar,  his  impatient  ring  remained 
unanswered.  Then  after  a  moment's  wait  he  pushed  the 
door  further  open  and  cautiously,  like  an  intruder,  took  a 
survey  of  the  interior.  He  saw  at  once  that  the  house  was 
empty  and  that  it  would  be  useless  to  ring  the  bell  again. 
In  quick  relief  he  closed  the  door  hastily ;  he  had  done  all 
that  could  be  expected  of  him;  he  would  not  wait. 

But,  as  he  turned  to  go,  a  feeling  of  extraordinary  de 
pression  fell  upon  him.  The  house,  once  so  gay,  so  full  of 
color,  seemed  to  have  been  shocked  into  silence ;  there  was 
a  waiting  pause  about  the  place,  as  though  presently,  waking 
from  its  trance,  it  would  begin  to  feel  and  live  again.  As 
he  went  hurriedly  down  the  steps,  the  vagrant  leaves  that 
covered  the  lawn  began  to  scurry  in  tiny  battalions  here 
and  there,  some  of  them  mounting  to  the  veranda,  where 
the  chairs  rocked  back  and  forth  with  the  quickening 
wind. 


THE  THRESHOLD  261 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  returned  to  the  office 
in  the  Sheridan  Building,  which  he  found  deserted  as  it 
had  been  most  of  the  day.  He  had  no  further  interest  there. 
Several  days  ago  his  belongings  had  been  removed  to  the 
rooms  he  still  occupied  in  the  adjoining  apartment,  and  the 
stamp  of  the  pompous  and  methodical  Major  Bailey  was 
upon  the  place.  His  mail  lay  in  a  cold  little  heap  beside  the 
telephone,  on  the  desk  that  had  been  Antonia's,  and  this 
he  took  up  and  went  into  his  own  apartment,  closing  but 
not  locking  the  communicating  door.  Suddenly  tired,  he  sat 
down  in  a  reading  chair  beneath  the  wide,  yellow  lamp  and 
began  to  open  his  letters. 

None  of  them  was  important,  though  he  was  obliged  to 
read  all.  People  had  already  begun  to  write  to  him  about 
investments ;  temptingly  ridiculous  offers  that  reminded  him 
of  Laurence  Dupagny's  schemes.  He  sneered  as  he  glanced 
through  the  typed  pages.  How  could  a  man  be  fool  enough 
to  let  himself  be  caught  by  this  balderdash? 

Once  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound  in  the  outer  office,  the 
faint  passing  of  a  footstep  and  the  turn  of  a  knob  some 
where,  but  his  attention  failed  to  concentrate  on  this 
infinitesimal  sound.  Presently  the  letters  were  finished  and 
he  put  them  aside  to  glance  around  the  rooms  which  were 
in  uninviting  confusion.  He  had  already  arranged  to  give 
them  up  and  the  next  day  would  see  his  belongings  trans 
ferred  to  his  new  home ;  but  before  this  could  be  done  there 
loomed  the  distasteful  task  of  packing  and  destroying 
the  endless  souvenirs  of  this  period.  No  one  could  attend 
to  this  but  himself,  and  the  prospect  of  the  evening  spent  in 
this  melancholy  task  was  not  alluring.  But  before  he  had 
more  than  accepted  the  duty  as  his  own,  he  heard  Peter's 
voice  calling  to  him  from  the  outer  office. 

Peter  had  entered  unheard,  and,  without  knowing  why  he 


262  THE  THRESHOLD 

should  yield  to  the  summons,  Cleve  got  up  from  his  com 
fortable  chair  and  returned  sullenly  to  the  office. 

He  found  Peter  leaning  lightly  against  the  edge  of  a  desk, 
smoking  a  cigarette  with  leisurely  enjoyment.  He  was  care 
fully  dressed  and  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  Peter  who  had 
once  presented  himself  after  four  in  the  afternoon.  His 
nearsighted  eyes  were  masked  by  their  shielding  glasses  and 
offered  no  solution  of  his  intention. 

"A  busy  day,"  he  offered,  casually.  "This  Dupagny  affair 
has  made  no  end  of  a  row." 

"I  hope,"  said  Cleve,  behind  his  own  mask,  "that  you 
haven't  been  hit  very  hard,  though  undoubtedly  you're  the 
chief  loser.  What  do  you  mean  to  do  about  Dupagny?" 

Peter  eyed  him  steadily.  "What,"  he  asked  in  return,  "do 
you  mean  to  do  about  his  wife?" 

Cleve  was  stunned.  His  face  turned  from  white  to  red. 
"By  God!"  he  stammered,  "by  what  right  do  you  ask  me 
that?" 

"As  his  creditor,"  Peter  said  calmly,  "I'm  taking  over  all 
his  effects,  and  his  wife  is  chief  among  them.  I've  got  to 
find  her  status.  So  I  ask  you,  what  do  you  mean  to  do 
about  her?" 

"You  beast,"  stammered  the  younger  man,  helplessly, 
"you  damned  beast!  I'd  like  to  choke  you  with  those 
words — " 

"Why  don't  you — ?  If  I  suggest  a  responsibility  which 
you  may  honestly  repudiate,  then  by  all  means  choke  me. 
I  shall  not  resist." 

But  Cleve  did  not  move  from  where  he  stood.  "The 
scandal — dragging  her  name  into  publicity — a  low  brawl  be 
tween  men — " 

"You  are  right,"  Peter  agreed  with  a  sad  smile,  "a 
woman's  reputation  may  endure  any  wrong  from  a  man's 


THE  THRESHOLD  263 

hand,  rather  than  an  honest  fight  over  her.  In  that  case  she 
always  emerges  more  blackened,  more  bruised  than  the  com 
batants  themselves.  Well,  then,  since  we  are  not  to  fight, 
shall  we  discuss  the  issue  calmly  and  find  the  remedy,  if  one 
exists  ?" 

Sweat  stood  out  on  Cleve's  forehead.  There  was  a 
strained  and  livid  look  about  his  mouth,  but  he  managed  to 
speak  in  a  natural  tone. 

"I  am  glad  if  you  have  decided  to  cease  insulting  me.  It 
is  hard  to  endure  when  I  could  break  you  so  easily.  .  .  . 
Don't  imagine  that  I  am  afraid  of  you  physically.  ...  I 
went  to  war,  and  I  am  not  a  coward.  You  who  remained 
behind,  are  an  unknown  quantity.  .  .  ." 

Peter  smiled  quietly.  "That  is  one  of  the  unanswerable 
questions.  Who  were  the  brave  men?  Who  will  ever 
measure  the  courage  of  those  who  were  too  young  or  too 
old ;  the  sick  and  the  helpless ;  those  with  weak  eyes  and  im 
perfect  limbs, — the  comedians  who  were  too  short  or  too 
tall — ?  Posterity  will  have  to  choose  its  heroes  from  too 
few." 

The  other  took  refuge  in  a  sneer.  "Did  you  call  me  in 
here  to  discuss  the  war,  and  your  reasons  for — not  going? 
If  that's  the  case,  would  you  mind  excusing  me?  I'm  leav 
ing  the  rooms  to-morrow." 

The  room  was  unlighted  except  for  the  shaft  of  yellow 
that  came  from  the  open  door  of  Cleve's  apartment,  but  this 
was  enough  to  reveal  the  alteration  in  Peter's  mocking  smile 
to  grim  resolution.  "Do  you  mean  that  you  are  abandoning 
her  ?  Leaving  her  to  the  mercy  of  the  public — ?" 

"How  dramatic  you  are !  If  you  are  interested,  why  not 
come  to  the  aid  of  the  lady  yourself?  She  is  very  beautiful 
and  you  could  make  her  entirely  happy  in  your  philanthropic 
way — " 


264  THE  THRESHOLD 

"What  a  scoundrel  you  are — !" 

"Look  here,"  said  Cleve,  reasonably.  He  suddenly 
abandoned  anger  as  unlikely  to  get  the  argument  to  safer 
ground.  It  was  not  his  intention  to  quarrel  violently  with 
Peter  Withrow  if  that  could  be  avoided,  and,  aside  from  that, 
he  hated  intense  emotions  almost  as  much  as  he  dreaded  to 
make  enemies.  All  this  bandying  of  words  appeared 
foolish  and  thriftless  to  him;  it  seemed  that  they  would 
reach  solid  ground  somewhere  if  Peter  could  be  persuaded 
to  discuss  the  matter  amicably.  He  met  the  hostile  gaze 
of  his  opponent,  his  own  eyes  filled  with  kindly,  pleasant 
lights.  "Look  here,  you  know,  Withrow,  you  are  disposing 
of  a  lady's  name  rather  carelessly.  How  do  you  know  that 
she'd  care  for  my  companionship, — or  yours,  for  that 
matter?  And  as  for  the  gossip  of  the  town, — what  would 
be  said  if  you  or  I  took  an  active  part  in  relieving  her  nat 
ural  distress  at  Dupagny's  failure?  You  know  how  impos 
sible  it  is  for  a  man  to  help  a  woman, — a  woman  of  his 
own  class  ?  Try  to  look  at  this  calmly.  We  must  find  some 
other  way  to  reach  her  and  protect  her  at  the  same  time." 

There  was  enough  truth  in  what  he  said  to  bring  Peter 
to  a  pause.  On  second  thought  he  admitted  that  he  had 
rather  bungled  things ;  pity  for  Rose  and  a  deeper  reason, 
unmentionable  in  this  scene,  swayed  him  beyond  caution. 
But  he  was  only  partially  mollified  by  Cleve's  specious 
words,  seeing  in  them  only  another  cause  for  contempt. 

"Mrs.  Dupagny  and  I  have  been  very  good  friends,"  con 
tinued  Cleve,  more  confidently,  noting  the  change  in  the 
other's  face.  "We  are  still  friends,  I  hope.  But  what  can 
I  do  more  than  offer  my  sympathy  and  more  material  help, 
if  that  is  necessary?" 

"You  can  make  her  your  wife,"  Peter  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

While  the  words  hung  in  the  air,  Cleve  laughed  outright. 


THE  THRESHOLD  265 

His  wife!  It  seemed  to  him  that  Peter  must  be  joking. 
Not  even  when  he  believed  himself  in  love  had  he  thought 
of  that  possibility.  Then  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  thing 
struck  him  afresh  and  he  laughed  again.  Dupagny  was  a 
defaulter,  but  Rose  was  nevertheless  his  wife,  and  here  was 
Peter  preaching  propriety  and  heroics,  and  planning  to 
marry  her  off  to  him  before  her  freedom  had  been  sug 
gested.  It  sounded  more  than  immoral. 

"Gad !  But  you're  a  modern !"  he  exclaimed,  when  he 
had  finished  laughing.  "Has  it  occurred  to  you  that 
Dupagny  is  still  in  the  land  of  the  living,  though  I'll  admit 
a  divorce  would  not  be  difficult?"  When  his  mockery 
brought  no  response  he  became  as  grave  as  Peter  himself, 
understanding  that  the  subject  was  not  to  be  disposed- of  so 
easily.  He  continued  in  a  changed  voice :  "When  a  man  is 
thinking  of  marriage — a  real  marriage — he  doesn't  go  about 
looking  among  other  men's  wives  for  a  woman  to  make  his 
own, — or  that  isn't  my  idea  of  finding  my  own  wife.  My 
future  is  in  the  making,  Withrow,  and  a  large  part  of  it  de 
pends  on  the  woman  who  will  share  it.  Marriage,  to  my 
mind,  is  the  most  important  thing  in  life, — not  in  itself,  per 
haps,  but  to  the  future  of  mankind.  It  isn't  to  be  entered 
into  lightly, — attraction  of  the  senses  isn't  enough.  .  .  . 
Good  Lord,  man,  think  of  giving  your  name  and  honor  into 
the  hands  of  a  woman  \vho  has  abused  those  gifts  from  an 
other  man — " 

Peter,  grown  paler  than  ever  during  this  speech,  said 
dryly,  "But  when  you  haven't  any  honor  to  give — " 

The  subtle  meaning  in  his  tone  eluded  Cleve.  "Every 
man  has  honor,"  he  said  briskly.  "The  honor  of  his  promise 
to  live  straight, — his  children's  honor — " 

"Then  you  are  thinking  of  marriage  ?" 

"Right,"  Cleve  admitted,  holding  his  attitude  of  imper- 


266  THE  THRESHOLD 

sonality.  "You  see,  I  can't  do  anything.  I  belong  to  an 
other  woman.  She  loves  me.  And  Rose  Dupagny  is  not 
an  innocent  girl.  She  expects  nothing  from  me — she 
couldn't.  I  have  promised  nothing." 

Peter's  shoulders  dropped.  His  passion  subsided.  Be 
fore  Cleve's  unanswerable  statement,  his  championship  of  a 
lost  cause  took  on  a  hopeless  aspect.  The  words  "she  loves 
me"  deprived  him  of  courage,  and,  seeing  his  advantage, 
Cleve  pursued  it  eagerly.  "Her  name  mustn't  be  brought 
into  this !"  he  concluded  with  meaning. 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  Peter  made  a  tentative 
gesture  of  resignation  and  moved  toward  the  door  of  his 
own  room,  so  seldom  used ;  he  opened  and  closed  the  door 
without  a  parting  word,  and  Cleve,  after  a  moment  of  silent 
contemplation  in  which  he  reviewed  the  interview,  trying  to 
see  if  his  case  might  have  been  more  strongly  put,  shrugged 
his  shoulders  lightly  and  retreated  to  his  own  apartment. 
This  time  as  the  door  shut,  the  key  clicked  in  the  lock.  He 
had  no  intention  of  enduring  a  second  interruption. 

Then  in  the  large  office  everything  was  dark  and  quiet. 
There  was  no  sound  from  either  of  the  rooms  where  the 
two  men  had  disappeared.  When  this  was  certain  beyond 
a  doubt,  the  door  of  Major  Bailey's  office,  which  during  this 
time  had  been  lightly  ajar,  opened  wide  enough  to  permit 
Antonia  Christy  to  pass  through.  Being  familiar  with  every 
object  in  her  way  she  was  able  to  reach  the  exit  without  a 
sound,  though  she  moved  slowly  and  with  all  the  care  of  a 
sleep  walker.  When  she  was  safe  in  the  street  she  almost 
ran. 

Her  presence  there  had  been  brought  about  by  simple  and 
natural  means  and  in  visiting  her  once  familiar  ground  she 
had  no  thought  of  disobeying  Peter's  stern  injunction  which 
had  dismissed  her.  When  she  returned  from  the  drive  with 


THE  THRESHOLD  267 

Cleve  her  mother  had  met  her  with  an  assortment  of  mes 
sages  from  the  irascible  Major.  There  were  some  impor 
tant  papers  which  she  had  brought  home  a  few  days  before 
for  special  study  and  forgotten  to  return.  The  Major  had 
made  it  plain  that  his  future  peace  of  mind  depended  on  the 
return  of  these  papers  that  night,  and  Antonia,  not  daring 
to  trust  the  mission  to  Donnie,  chose  to  return  them  herself. 
But  she  had  barely  entered  the  Bailey  office  when  she  heard 
Peter,  entering  on  her  very  footsteps,  call  his  summons  to 
Cleve. 

She  had  been  an  unwilling  and  unintentional  listener  to 
their  conversation,  but  after  the  first  few  sentences,  she  did 
not  remember  that  she  was  eavesdropping.  There  was  a 
consideration  at  stake  much  too  important  for  the  splitting 
of  hairs,  and  in  learning  what  she  could  from  the  words 
of  these  two  who  did  not  dream  of  her  presence,  she  acted 
with  the  supreme  independence  which  was  coming  more 
and  more  to  mark  her  swift  decisions.  She  had  promised 
to  be  Cleve  Harkness'  wife,  and  almost  at  once  she  under 
stood  that  he  was  not  free  to  marry  her, — not  as  she  under 
stood  freedom. 

She  walked  swiftly  along  the  quiet  streets  that  were 
already  dark,  except  for  the  street  lights  that  were  begin 
ning  to  glow  at  every  corner.  She  passed  through  Christy 
Square  in  the  shadow  of  the  staid  old  building  where  her 
name  was  inscribed  with  honor,  and,  looking  up  at  its 
solemn  windows  as  her  own  father  never  forgot  to  look, 
she  smiled  with  brave  reassurance  that  soon  everything 
would  be  righted.  Something  lay  cold  and  heavy  in  her 
breast  so  that  she  found  it  difficult  to  breathe,  but  her 
steps  did  not  pause  and  she  held  her  head  proudly, 

The  Square  was  deserted  and  most  of  the  shops  were 
dark,  but  on  a  corner  the  gayly  colored  lights  advertised  a 


268  THE  THRESHOLD 

drug  store.  The  place  was  occupied  by  a  few  loitering  cus 
tomers  who  were  drinking  the  first  hot  cocoa  of  the  season 
and  she  made  her  way  through  these  idlers  to  the  telephone 
booth  at  the  rear.  When  she  called  Peter  Withrow's  number 
and  finally  heard  his  voice  replying,  she  said  without  a 
break  in  her  own,  "Come  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ROSE  remembered.  She  was  at  her  own  door  when  the 
graceful,  drooping  figure  at  Cleve's  side  recalled  itself 
to  her  memory.  The  Christy  girl,  of  course.  Why  had 
she  not  known  at  once,  when  long  ago  her  heart  warned 
her  of  this  inevitable  climax?  Toward  the  end  of  her 
journey  she  walked  with  difficulty.  One  of  her  slipper 
heels  had  twisted  and  broken  in  two,  and  though  there  were 
shoes  in  plenty  waiting  her  choice,  she  did  not  think  of 
changing  the  ones  she  had  worn  on  the  pitiful  pilgrimage 
across  the  town. 

While  she  was  in  the  street  she  thought  the  time  would 
never  come  when  she  could  hide  her  face  and  the  tattered 
rags  she  wore  behind  closed  doors,  but  now,  at  home  once 
more,  the  walls  of  the  house  smothered  her,  and  she  waited 
only  long  enough  to  cover  herself  with  the  long  cape 
rejected  by  the  servant,  who  had  long  since  departed  with 
her  spoils.  She  found  a  hat  whose  drooping  brim  con 
cealed  her  face  effectively,  and  dressed  in  this  fashion  it 
was  possible  to  slip  through  the  late  afternoon  streets  of 
Cresston  unobserved. 

While  she  was  making  ready  and  while  she  was  walking 
as  eagerly  and  rapidly  as  she  could  toward  her  destination, 
she  rehearsed  her  pain  continuously,  as  a  child  protests 
futilely  against  injustice.  She  could  think  of  nothing  but 
that  girl,  sitting  beside  Cleve  so  naturally,  as  if  she  belonged 
there  by  right. 

269 


270  THE  THRESHOLD 

It  was  the  frankness  of  their  association  that  appalled 
her.  It  was  almost  as  though  he  meant  the  town  to  under 
stand  that  here  was  an  affair  that  need  not  be  hidden — 
something  he  was  not  ashamed  of !  And  yet,  that  would 
be  too  absurd.  Men  like  Cleve  did  not  court  serious  love 
affairs  with  young  persons  who  typed  their  letters.  She 
had  never  been  deceived  about  Cleve ;  she  knew  that  his 
character  was  not  sacrificial,  and  this  was  the  time  when  she 
rejoiced  in  his  selfishness.  It  reassured  her. 

But  the  moment  of  her  relief  was  shattered  by  other  recol 
lections,  dubious  and  obscure.  Even  while  she  traduced 
Antonia  she  knew  that  the  girl  was  not  of  the  ordinary 
clay  of  which  her  imagination  tried  to  fashion  her.  Peter 
Withrow  had  loved  her ;  she  was  extraordinary  enough  to 
charm  Peter,  who  had  been  indifferent  to  all  women. 

Confronted  by  this  thought,  so  menacing  in  its  possibili 
ties,  her  unseen  wounds  became  too  much  to  bear  alone. 
Her  mind,  sharpened  by  this  conflict,  leaped  to  meet  a  plan 
as  cruelly  simple,  as  childish,  as  primitive  emotion  alone  can 
invent. 

The  lateness  of  the  hour  made  the  chance  of  meeting 
any  one  who  knew  her  a  small  one.  At  this  hour  her  one 
time  friends  were  lingering  over  tea  tables,  nibbling  repu 
tations  with  their  almond  cakes;  doubtless  in  a  dozen 
houses  her  own  name  occupied  the  public  moment.  ...  It 
was  not  yet  five,  but  already  street  lamps  had  begun  to  flare 
into  yellow  brilliancy,  the  same  lights  that  Antonia  had 
seen  appear.  The  two  might  have  passed  within  a  yard 
of  one  another,  but  in  spite  of  their  thoughts,  clinging 
desperately  to  each  other,  they  did  not  meet.  .  .  .  The  sun 
had  gone  down  in  reddened  splendor  and  these  lights,  reflect 
ing  against  the  wind-swept  sky,  caught  their  reflection  in 
the  windows  of  the  Sheridan  Building  which  dominated 


THE  THRESHOLD  271 

everything,   like   a   giant   caught   playing   with   pigmies   at 
nightfall. 

She  found  the  place  she  sought  in  a  mean  little  side 
street,  off-shooting  from  the  Square.  Once,  weeks  ago,  she 
had  idly  noted  the  faded  lettering  upon  the  windows  and 
her  subconscious  mind  retained  the  knowledge  for  a  reason 
she  now  recognized.  At  first  she  did  not  know  how  to 
reach  the  rooms,  now  that  she  had  found  them,  but  a  sullen 
grocer  on  the  first  floor,  putting  his  stock  in  order,  showed 
her  the  dim  stairway  leading  up  between  the  two  build 
ings. 

It  was  dark  in  the  upper  hall  and  a  musty  odor  pervaded 
everything:  the  smell  of  ancient  papers,  cobwebs,  and  old 
books  seldom  opened  and  never  read. 

Doors  appeared  at  intervals  along  the  corridor,  but  it  was 
much  too  dark  to  read  the  names  upon  the  clouded  glass 
panels.  As  she  was  hesitating  in  the  shadow,  one  of  these 
doors  opened  to  allow  a  man  to  pass  out ;  another  stood  on 
the  threshold  and  from  his  bared  head  and  air  of  occupancy 
she  knew  that  he  belonged  there. 

The  man  who  was  leaving  was  a  policeman.  Rose  was 
aware  of  policemen  as  one  is  aware  of  awesome,  unpleasant 
features  of  life.  They  arrested  motorists  for  speeding  and 
searched  the  baggage  of  dishonest  servants,  but  she  herself 
had  never  encountered  one — never  stood  trembling  in  the 
background  while  a  policeman,  huge  in  the  gloom,  smelling 
of  strong  tobacco,  virile,  ominous,  kept  her  waiting. 

Believing  themselves  alone,  these  two,  the  gray,  dusty 
man  in  his  cell  and  the  portly,  tightly  buttoned  officer,  so 
incongruous  and  mysterious  in  their  affiliation,  continued 
speaking  in  low,  guarded  tones  of  the  subject  that  engaged 
them.  The  policeman  said  in  the  blustery  way  that  is  sup 
posed  to  frighten  little  children: 


272  THE  THRESHOLD 

"You  know,  Judge,  you  can  catch  most  any  sort  of  a 
butterfly  in  a  net." 

But  the  other  man  saw  Rose  before  he  could  reply,  as 
she  stood  half  revealed  in  the  light  of  the  door.  At  the 
same  time  the  officer  also  saw  her  standing  there  and 
doffed  his  gold-banded  cap  quite  as  another  man  would 
do,  watching  her  disappear  into  the  room  from  which 
he  had  emerged.  She  was  glad  when  the  door  closed  and 
she  was  alone  with  the  bare-headed  elderly  man  she  had 
come  to  see. 

It  was  a  little  lighter  in  the  room,  and,  seeing  the  sort 
of  person  she  was  alone  with,  all  the  vague  and  indistinct 
fears  set  in  vibration  by  the  burly  officer  left  her.  There 
was  nothing  to  cause  her  uneasiness  here.  This  dingy 
personality  in  the  midst  of  his  dingy  books  and  with  the 
aroma  of  countless  dead  days  about  him  was  such  a  man 
as  she  might  have  passed  a  thousand  times  in  the  streets 
without  knowledge  of  his  existence. 

He  made  a  seat  for  her  by  sweeping  a  clutter  of  papers 
from  a  chair  that  creaked  protestingly  beneath  even  her 
slight  weight.  Then  he  sat  down  facing  her. 

Rose  began  uncertainly,  "You — you  are  Judge  Christy?" 
Now  that  she  was  here,  there  were  obstacles  that  prevented 
the  completion  of  her  plan.  She  searched  in  her  mind  for 
explanations  that  would  satisfy  him  but  found  none. 

He  inclined  his  head  a  little  to  her  questioning,  admitting 
without  comment.  She  saw  that  he  was  studying  her  from 
beneath  his  shaggy  brows,  but  this  scrutiny  was  so  imper 
sonal  that  she  could  not  resent  it.  "Why  have  you  come  ?" 
his  attitude  asked,  though  he  said  nothing. 

Rose's  face  was  concealed  by  the  droop  of  her  hat.  Under 
this  shelter  she  was  safe,  but  it  did  not  lessen  her  confusion 
in  the  presence  of  the  man  who  silently  regarded  her  while 


THE  THRESHOLD  273 

she  sought  desperately  for  words  to  begin.  Finally  she 
said  in  a  low,  faltering  voice : 

"I  am  interested  in  young  girls.  ...  I  wonder  if  you 
know  that — your — daughter — " 

"You  are  Laurence  Dupagny's  wife?"  he  said. 

She  started,  forcing  back  an  explanation  that  would  have 
betrayed  her  panic.  Yet  after  this  brief  confusion  she 
became  calm.  What  did  it  matter?  His  recognition  had 
the  effect  of  organizing  her  straying  faculties  and  instantly 
she  had  provided  herself  with  a  plausible  story  behind  which 
she  could  reveal  her  true  purpose. 

"You  are  correct,"  she  said,  more  evenly.  "I  am  Mrs. 
Dupagny,  and  because  I  have  suffered  so  much  from  a 
persisting  evil,  I  would  save  others  from  suffering  if  I 
could." 

"What  do  you  wish  to  say  to  me?"  he  asked  in  a  muffled 
voice. 

She  had  the  sensation  of  plunging  into  deep  water  that 
closed  more  relentlessly  over  her  head  with  erery  word 
she  uttered.  She  had  no  time  to  think  where  this  might 
lead  her.  All  was  chaos. 

"Do  you  know  that  the  building  where  your  daughter  is 
employed  is  a  den — a  den — of  vice.  Women  go  there — 

women "  She  stopped,  appalled  at  the  confirmation 

of  his  face.  "You — you — know — "  she  stammered. 

"But  what  has  this  to  do  with  your  coming  here?"  he 
demanded,  sternly. 

She  shook  with  nervousness.  Without  the  jealous  fury 
that  preyed  upon  her  heart  she  could  not  have  answered, 
but  she  forced  herself  to  say:  "She  is  a  young  girl — 
perhaps  she  does  not  know  that  being  there  with  those 

two  young  men — both  of  them .  And  she  has  been 

seen  with  first  one  and  then  the  other.  ...  It  is  becoming 


274  THE  THRESHOLD 

a  scandal.  To-day — to-day — she  was  driving  with  Cleve 
Harkness — boldly,  as  though  her  name  had  never  been  con 
nected  with  his."  She  stopped  to  moisten  her  lips,  appalled 
by  what  she  was  saying,  yet  driven  to  continue.  "Do  you 
know  that  when  she  left  her  home — your  house — it  was  to 
meet  him.  He  took  her  to  the  house  where  she  now 
lives  ...  he  lived  there  himself  ...  he  made  the  woman 
take  her  in — " 

She  could  think  of  no  further  calumny.  This  indictment 
which  before  coming  here  had  been  so  overwhelming,  seemed 
to  fall  helplessly  on  the  air,  as  rain  upon  the  stone  face  of  a 
granite  wall.  She  had  expected  a  scene  of  recrimination 
and  anger,  but  nothing  like  this  happened.  It  had  grown 
swiftly  darker  and  she  could  see  the  bulk  of  his  figure 
undistinguished  by  any  signs  that  would  betray  his  mental 
processes.  She  could  not  even  say  if  she  had  wounded 
him ;  but  presently  he  startled  her,  not  by.  replying  to  her 
allegations  but  by  making  a  statement  of  his  own. 

"My  child,  you  love  this  man." 

He  said  this  simply,  but  in  so  deep  and  tender  a  tone 
that  at  once  her  resistance  was  broken.  She  pressed  her 
knuckles  against  her  lips  to  silence  the  sobs  that  convulsed 
her  throat.  She  had  expected  anything  but  this,  and  she  had 
no  answer  ready.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  a  man  who  would 
understand,  yet  he  was  saying  this  !  How  did  he  know  ? 

"You  love  him,  and  now  he  is  turning  away  from  you  to 
another,"  he  went  on.  "You  have  not  learned  yet  that  men 
cannot  be  held  by  other  men's  wives?"  Then  he  added  in 
a  dry  voice:  "What  would  you  have  me  do?" 

Rose  wrung  her  hands.  "Give  him  back  to  me !  If  she 

were  not  there  with  him  every  hour •  Oh,  don't  you 

understand?  I  have  given  up  everything — everything — and 


THE  THRESHOLD  275 

I  have  lost !  And  this  girl  is  your  own  daughter.  Don't 
you  love  her?  Don't  you  care  about  saving  her?" 

This  seemed  to  touch  him  in  some  remote  way.  He 
shifted  in  his  chair,  but  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  the  same 
emotionless  tone. 

"My  daughter  is  a  woman.  She  has  chosen  to  take  a 
place  in  the  world  and  she  must  endure  with  this  all  that 
other  women  who  leave  the  shelter  of  their  homes  must 
endure — blame  and  praise — and,  if  deserved,  punishment. 
My  feeling  is  not  a  factor."  He  turned  from  this  phase 
abruptly:  "Your  husband  has  left  you?" 

"This  morning,"  she  acknowledged  drearily,  as  though  this 
meant  little.  "A  girl  went  writh  him — one  of  those  girls. 
She  was  in  his  office." 

He  heard  this,  his  chin  sunk  on  his  breast.  By  this  time 
they  would  have  been  in  complete  darkness,  but  for  the 
shallow  rays  of  a  street  light  outside.  In  this  darkness  they 
became  only  two  voices ;  her  own  quivering  and  choked  with 
tears  and  his  the  dry,  husky  tone  of  a  man  who  lives  in 
silence,  speaking  as  little  as  he  may.  After  a  brief  pause 
she  heard  him  say.  .  .  . 

"Your  home  has  been  broken  by — this  woman?" 

She  waited  for  him  to  say  more,  but,  when  nothing  came 
she  timidly  pursued  her  inquiry:  "What  do  you  intend 
to  do?" 

Then  the  voice  turned  upon  her  with  some  dreadful  ex 
clamation,  a  word  she  had  never  heard.  It  fell  upon  her 
like  a  missile  hurled  from  some  inconceivable  height. 

"You  barren  woman !  If  you  had  ever  borne  a  child 
you  would  not  dare  ask  that — 

She  ran  from  the  place  in  terror,  stumbling  on  her 
broken  slipper.  Her  mouth  hung  open ;  she  thought  he  was 


276  THE  THRESHOLD 

about  to  strike  her.     But  when  she  reached  the  hall  her 
footsteps  were  the  only  sound  she  heard  and  trembling  at 
what  she  had  done,  she  groped  her  way  to  the  square  of 
light  that  led  to  the  stairway. 
But  he  had  already  forgotten  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  much  later  when  he  left  the  office,  locking  the 
door  methodically  and  made  his  way.  to  the  street.  In 
the  same  block  a  belated  butcher  still  remained,  pathetically 
attentive  behind  his  narrow  counter.  Christy  entered  the 
shop  and  carefully  selected  and  paid  for  two  chops,  and, 
with  the  small  package  in  his  hand,  made  his  way  diagonally 
across*  the  Square  to  the  intersection  of  Armitage  Street. 
On  his  way  home  he  was  obliged  to  pass  the  Pendleton 
house  which,  in  spite  of  changed  name-plates,  would  always 
be  known  by  that  title ;  then  the  Withrow  place,  a  huge  and 
starkly  ugly  building,  where  a  housekeeper  was  mistress  and 
the  Colonel,  beginning  to  lose  his  gallantry  and  become 
addicted  to  old  men's  interests,  pottered  about  on  bright 
mornings  with  a  garden  hose  and  rose  scissors.  Then  a  little 
further  and  he  came  to  the  Dupagny  house — emptiest  of 
all,  for  here  no  spirit  of  other  days  lived,  and  already  the 
trees  and-  flowers  that  grew  around  it  seemed  to  have  closed 
in  jealously;  as  though  to  hide  the  secret  of  its  inner  wounds. 

When  he  reached  the  corner  where  the  big  arc  light  threw 
a  ghastly  pale  blue  aura  over  the  orchard  world  of  his  own 
premises,  there  was  a  scattering  of  little  boys  who  had  been 
holding  conclave  in  the  corner  of  the  fence.  He  had  seen 
them  there  often  and  Donnie  had  always  been  among  them 
until  now — 

A  man  crossed  the  street  and  intercepted  him.  It  was 
the  officer  who  constantly  humiliated  Miss  Plumey  by  pre- 
277 


278  THE  THRESHOLD 

suming  upon  his  acquaintance  with  her  father.  The  two 
men  meeting  under  the  arc  light  uttered  indifferent  greet 
ings,  and  stopped  to  talk  together  for  five  minutes  in  voices 
too  low  to  be  heard  except  by  one  another.  When  their  con 
ference  was  over  the  officer  went  on  with  quickened  steps, 
but  Roscoe  Christy  turned  into  his  own  gate  heavily. 

It  was  long  past  the  usual  supper  hour,  but  when  he  had 
lighted  the  gas  in  the  middle  room  he  did  not  go  into  the 
kitchen  to  begin  the  preparation  of  a  meal  which  had  been 
his  habit  since  Mrs.  Christy  went  away.  Instead,  he  dropped 
the  little  brown  paper  package  upon  a  table  where  it  re 
mained,  forgotten. 

The  room  was  much  as  it  had  always  been.  Mrs.  Christy 
would  slip  back  in  the  mornings  and  with  the  touch  of 
legerdemain  set  everything  right,  so  that  when  he  returned 
at  night  it  was  as  though  the  pixies  had  been  at  work.  But 
he  never  knew  this.  He  would  sit  in  the  same  place,  scat 
tering  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  over  the  brushed  hearth,  leav 
ing  the  pages  of  the  newspaper  lie  as  they  fell  from  his 
hand,  unconscious  that  the  debris  from  the  previous  night 
had  been  taken  away.  He  did  not  feel  her  simple  ministra 
tions  ;  what  he  missed  was  her  visible  presence  and  the  light 
in  the  home  kitchen  at  evening. 

The  middle  room  was  cold  and  dull ;  the  gaslight  accentu 
ated  the  gloomy  cavern  that  yawned  like  a  pit.  He  sat  down 
in  the  great  chair  as  though  his  legs  failed  him  after  the 
long  walk.  There  was  something  that  he  would  do  after 
awhile,  but  now  he  was  tired  and  must  rest. 

There  was  not  a  sound  anywhere  about  the  place  but  the 
stertorous  breathing  from  the  chair  and  the  loud  and  endless 
ticking  of  the  old  silver  watch  hanging  on  the  peg  beneath 
the  high  mantel  shelf.  The  place  was  wrapped  in  an  atmos 
phere  of  waiting,  like  the  breathless  void  that  preceded 


THE  THRESHOLD  279 

some  violent  stroke  from  the  elements.  Then  presently, 
persistently  calling,  as  a  voice  calls  from  a  distance,  the 
ticking  of  the  watch  pierced  his  abstraction. 

The  room  had  grown  colder  and  a  black  draught  came 
from  the  heart  of  the  fireplace.  He  was  astonished  to  find 
that  so  much  time  had  passed — it  was  nine  o'clock.  Soon 
it  would  be  ten — eleven !  He  was  conscious  of  the  chill  of 
the  room,  but  he  was  not  cold.  Once  he  lifted  his  hand  to 
his  face  and  found  it  burning  hot.  That  was  strange,  though 
he  did  not  try  to  interpret  the  mystery  of  it.  He  felt  no 
actual  discomfort,  but,  reminded  by  the  moving  hands  of 
the  watch,  the  dead  hearth  pressed  itself  upon  his  con 
sciousness  at  last,  and  with  this  came  a  recurrence  of  the 
thought  which  had  been  borne  in  his  mind  hours  ago.  A 
Christy  was  dead  and  watch  fires  must  be  lighted ! 

He  got  up  deliberately  and  went  through  the  house  to 
the  orchard  beyond.  It  was  impenetrably  dark  here  and 
he  turned  back  for  a  lantern  from  the  store  house.  It  was 
an  old-fashioned  lantern,  the  kind  that  had  become  obsolete, 
and  when  lighted  it  threw  searching  rays,  warm  and  yellow, 
along  the  ghostly  rows  of  trees  whose  branches  hung  half 
dead  and  drooping  almost  to  the  ground.  While  he  was 
searching  for  the  lantern  he  found  an  axe  with  a  broken 
handle  and  he  brought  this  with  him. 

The  debris  that  littered  the  ground  beneath  the  trees 
was  plentiful  but  of  no  use  to  him.  A  fire  built  of  such 
refuse  could  not  last ;  it  would  be  without  dignity.  When 
Christys  died  they  built  bonfires  upon  the  hills  to  light  their 
spirits  to  the  beyond.  In  sudden  fury  he  dropped  the 
lantern  and  swung  the  axe  aloft.  It  fell  upon  the  bending 
bough  of  a  sweet  apple,  rending  it  frightfully.  With  un- 
diminished  ferocity  he  sought  the  very  heart  of  the  tree. 
The  lantern  resting  unevenly  upon  the  hillocks  of  dead 


280  THE  THRESHOLD 

grass  sent  out  wavering  shafts  of  light,  and  in  this  illumina 
tion  the  long  dim  rows  of  trees  seemed  to  falter  and  shrink, 
as  though  fearing  their  time  must  come  next.  As  the 
destroyer  passed  among  them  they  meekly  yielded,  like  old 
men  who  are  too  plentiful  and  understand  that  they  must 
make  way,  voicelessly  and  without  reproach  for  the  fruit 
they  have  borne. 

When  his  arms  were  loaded  he  made  his  way  to  the  house, 
leaving  the  ax  where  it  fell,  but  carrying  the  lantern  in 
some  fashion  upon  a  crook  of  his  ringer.  As  he  fed  the 
branches,  some  of  them  raw  and  bleeding,  to  the  insatiable 
mouth  of  the  black  hole,  there  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  it. 
The  cavern,  empty  so  long,  would  swallow  the  whole  orchard 
without  becoming  satiated. 

But  this  night  it  should  have  enough  and  he  made  a 
second  and  third  trip  to  the  wounded  trees  before  he  touched 
the  pile  with  fire.  As  the  match  struck  against  a  spray  of 
fiber,  there  was  a  faint  flame,  tiny  as  a  spark  against  the 
limitless  sky,  and  after  this  a  curl  of  smoke  and  the  aromatic 
odor  of  leaves  that  had  clung  to  the  last.  Finally  there  was 
a  pillar  of  flame,  leaping  like  an  upflung  arm  into  the 
tunnel  that  would  at  last  free  its  hot  spirit. 

He  returned  to  his  chair  exhausted  after  his  efforts  which 
had  been  violent  and  unremitting.  Time  had  passed.  It  was 
nearly  ten  by  the  watch  that  was  now  turned  to  a  face  of 
gold  by  the  conflagration  that  leaped  toward  the  distant 
sky.  He  could  no  longer  see  the  hands  move,  but  the 
glinting  metal  made  a  spot  of  radiance  against  the  dark 
face  of  the  wall,  flashing  a  message  of  rich  approval  for 
what  he  had  done. 

The  whole  room  was  changed  by  the  living  hearth.  Its 
desolation  passed,  yet  its  loneliness  became  doubly  poignant. 
A  time  like  this,  which  marked  the  passing  of  one  whose 


THE  THRESHOLD  281 

name  would  be  heard  no  more,  was  not  meant  to  be  spent 
in  unshared  watch.  Yet  who  was  there  to  sit  with  him,  but 
the  shades  of  those  who  must  approve  of  what  he  had 
done?  As  if  some  voice  which  must  be  answered  accused 
him,  he  began  to  bluster  in  a  guttural  voice  that  found 
stoppage  somewhere  in  his  throat :  "She  is  no  different  from 
other  women.  By  God,  no  different !  What  is  a  woman  ? 
By  accident  she  remains  virtuous — "  Then  as  though  this 
blasphemy  troubled  him,  he  became  silent,  after  a  long 
while  muttering:  "Let  her  stand  in  the  stocks — " 

Ten  had  come  and  gone — the  half  hour.  The  fire,  burn 
ing  tumultuously,  ate  its  way  through  the  rampart  of  round 
limbs  and  victoriously  settled  into  glowing  and  subtle  harvest. 
The  poor  room  was  wrapped  in  borrowed  glory.  Warm 
shadows  played  upon  the  ceiling  and  upon  the  stiff  faces  of 
hideous  old  portraits  which  alone  had  survived  time  and 
poverty.  All  the  fuel  would  soon  be  gone  and  with  its 
end  would  come  the  time  he  waited  for.  As  the  minutes 
ticked  remorselessly  away  he  began  a  monotonous  counting, 
as  prisoners  count  the  seconds  before  their  reprieve.  How 
fast  they  came,  how  inexorable.  In  the  beginning  time  had 
lagged,  but  now  it  rushed  upon  him  like  a  tide — as  years 
crowd  upon  a  life. 

Leaving  the  computation  of  time,  his  mind  retreated  be 
yond  the  hour  to  years  that  had  gone — seeing  Antonia  in 
the  phases  of  her  life  which  led  to  to-night;  reviewing  her 
as  a  baby,  "the  first  one  that  lived," — a  solemn-eyed  sedate 
child  of  parents  who  had  lost  the  first  joy  in  accomplishing 
parenthood.  Then  he  recalled  her  toddling  age  when  she 
had  disdained  help  from  older  hands,  choosing  to  make  her 
world  discoveries  alone ;  and  all  along  the  way  to  girlhood, 
remote  and  pure,  with  her  large,  intent  eyes  that  demanded 
to  know  everything. 


282  THE  THRESHOLD 

This  had  been  his  daughter.  He  had  not  known  her 
very  well,  being  content  to  have  the  shell  beneath  his  hand 
without  seeking  its  heart.  And  she  had  slipped  away.  Now 
he  did  not  know  what  held  her,  or  where  were  the  four 
walls  that  closed  her  in. 

Too  late  he  knew  now  how  much  he  had  loved  her.  From 
the  hour  she  had  lain  across  his  knees  in  this  chair,  he  had 
loved  her  more  than  all !  But  what  had  he  loved  ?  Was  it 
her  beauty,  delicate  and  fine,  lighted  by  the  glow  of  her 
spirit  that  was  always  reaching  beyond?  What  had  he 
loved  ? 

He  had  loved  in  her  the  presentment  of  his  race,  the 
women  long  dead  who  were  to  live  again  in  her ;  the  sullen 
pride  which  demanded  of  life  that  which  was  stubbornly 
withheld.  He  had  not  loved  the  real  Antonia,  who,  remorse 
lessly  stealing  the  dreams  of  his  own  youth,  refused  to  let 
him  choose  her  fate.  He  had  not  loved  her  spirit  which, 
having  no  sex,  defeated  him  with  the  strength  inherited 
from  his  own.  Fruitless  love !  It  might  have  been  unmeas 
ured,  but  he  had  refused  her  even  a  moiety. 

The  recurrence  of  this  thought  became  intolerable.  The 
very  bitterness  of  self-accusation  began  to  create  a  slow 
reversal  of  feeling  which  was  inevitable.  He  tried  to  find 
excuses  for  his  coldness  to  her,  and  to  justify  the  wrong 
he  had  done  with  the  foreshadowing  of  another  wrong.  If 
he  had  withdrawn  from  her  in  the  understanding  of  the 
spirit,  so  had  she  no  less  withheld  herself  from  him.  She 
had  done  more.  She  had  taken  from  him  the  love  of  her 
mother — that  he  sat  alone  to-night  was  because  of  her. 

Sorrow  had  come  and  gone.  He  no  longer  grieved ;  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  watch  above  his  head  and  saw  that 
the  hands  had  moved  across  the  face.  In  the  hour  passed 
since  his  first  vision  of  her  upon  his  knees,  he  had  run 


THE  THRESHOLD  283 

the  gamut  of  all  memories  of  her.  No  more  could  come. 
The  past  had  thrust  itself  upon  him  but  vanquished  it  would 
come  no  more. 

He  had  longed  fiercely  for  the  hour  of  his  vengeance, 
but  now  that  it  was  almost  here  he  was  not  so  sure.  He 
felt  a  weakening  of  his  hatred  and  fury  against  the  elements 
which  had  defeated  him;  already  he  sounded  the  shallow 
depths  of  hatred  and  the  fire  of  his  fury  left  him  cold. 
In  the  beginning  he  could  have  helped  in  the  sacrifice  like 
a  pagan  god  before  an  altar  that  knows  no  kinship,  but 
with  the  burning  down  of  the  fire  his  resolution  changed  to 
the  gray  of  covered  embers.  He  was  no  longer  sure.  In 
the  uncertainty  of  this  fading  resolve  his  immobile  face 
began  to  break  like  the  crumbling  apple  boughs.  Revenge 
was  certain,  but  was  it  revenge  he  longed  for,  or  was  it  the 
breath  of  forgiveness? 

The  dull  glow  of  the  watch  turned  to  crimson,  then  it 
became  dull  as  the  fire  sank,  but  out  of  the  darkness  the 
faint,  measured  sounds  of  the  escaping  moments  sent  their 
message.  He  could  no  longer  see  even  the  face  of  the 
watch.  Terrified,  he  realized  that  the  hour  might  come  and 
go,  leaving  him  unwarned.  All  at  once  he  longed  for 
silence,  complete  and  unbroken  by  a  sound !  If  only  the 
watch  would  stop  to  relieve  the  torture  of  this  suspense. 
But  this  had  never  happened.  He  remembered  the  years 
that  had  passed,  his  lifetime  and  his  father's  lifetime,  and 
all  that  time  those  tiny  hands  had  never  been  stilled.  At  that 
his  calm  was  broken  as  a  structure  crumbles  before  a  flood. 
He  tried  to  stand,  but  the  effort  was  not  fulfilled ;  his  limbs 
would  not  respond. 

Despair  seized  him;  he  was  chained  to  the  chair,  while 
just  beyond  his  hand  the  echo  of  passing  time  beat  upon 
his  ears.  If  he  could  stop  that — hold  it  back!  With  an 


284  THE  THRESHOLD 

intolerable  struggle  for  freedom  he  tore  himself  from  the 
chair  which  held  him  in  its  dead  arms,  and  took  one,  two, 
dragging  steps  toward  the  sound  that  tormented  him.  He 
could  see  the  insensate  face  turned  mockingly  to  meet  him. 
The  hands  pointed  to  twenty-five  minutes  past  eleven. 

What  had  he  done  ?  This  could  not  be !  He  threw  out  his 
arm,  stiff  as  one  of  the  tree  arms  his  ax  had  severed,  and 
swept  the  old  watch  away  before  it.  It  fell  with  a  loud  crash 
and  like  a  log  he  fell  with  it. 

Presently  he  recovered  enough  to  turn  his  drawn  face 
to  a  voice  that  called  persistently  through  a  stupor  fast 
controlling  him.  The  watch  lay  close  to  his  cheek,  its  crystal 
shattered  to  a  thousand  tiny  particles.  But  this  only  served 
to  release  the  sound  that  penetrated  to  his  ears  with  re 
doubled  volume.  The  second  hand  had  not  lost  a  single 
beat,  as  the  day  does  not  lose  a  moment  or  the  years  an 
hour.  His  brain  was  clear  though  his  body  no  longer 
vibrated  with  the  passions  that  had  brought  him  to  this. 
All  that  had  been  important  lost  its  importance  and  in  his 
fall  he  read  the  catastrophe  of  his  whole  life.  He  had  tried 
to  hold  back  the  years  by  the  greatness  of  a  name  which 
other  men  had  earned,  but  now  at  last  he  was  to  learn  that 
time  cannot  be  stayed.  Measured  by  this  infinite  process  the 
puniest  instrument  has  time  to  defy  a  nation,  just  as  the 
broken  relic  beside  him  defied  destruction  at  his  hand,  while 
events  moved  mercilessly  on  without  waiting  for  his  poor 
shell  to  rise  and  follow. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ROSE  had  found  refuge  on  one  of  the  hard  iron  benches 
in  Christy  Square.  She  had  been  there  for  a  long1 
time,  hours,  it  seemed,  and  she  did  not  know  where  she 
would  go  when  she  left  the  shelter  of  the  trees.  Dim  people 
passed  and  repassed  her  retreat,  growing  fewer  as  the  eve 
ning  advanced  and  the  lighted  lamps  of  their  houses  called 
them  home.  In  this  concealing  darkness  Antonia  passed, 
her  skirts  almost  touching  Rose,  and  a  little  later  Roscoe 
Christy  went  by  going  to  his  lonely  vigil  without  seeing  her. 
Had  these  three,  who  were  so  near,  been  drawn  together, 
their  hands  might  have  closed  each  other's  wounds,  but 
this  was  not  to  be.  Though  their  breath  mingled,  contact 
between  them  was  impossible. 

Presently  no  one  passed. 

Like  the  others  whose  lives  touched  her  own  that  night, 
she  watched  the  lights  come  on  around  the  Square  with 
night ;  fireflies  captured  behind  closed  doors.  Somewhere, 
shut  in  by  shrouded  windows,  a  band  met  for  practice ;  the 
lonely,  piercing  ripple  of  a  clarionet  forced  its  way  through 
walls  and  space,  melting  into  the  dull  world  outside.  The 
plaintive  purity  of  this  sound  found  its  way  into  her  heart 
and  brought  tears  to  soften  her  dry  eyes. 

She  was  ashamed  now  of  what  she  had  done,  for,  with 
passion  spent,  she  could  not  see  what  this  availed  except  to 
further  the  degradation  of  her  spirit.  She  tried  to  erase  it 
from  her  mind,  but  her  own  words,  repeating  themselves  in 
endless  iteration,  had  the  effect  of  a  relentless  lesson  which 

285 


286  THE  THRESHOLD 

she  accepted  passively.  All  that  she  had  said  was  a  lie ; 
the  reverse  was  the  truth  and  the  certainty  of  this  was  part 
of  her  punishment — Cleve  loved  this  girl  as  he  had  never 
loved  her,  even  in  the  beginning. 

She  saw  everything  now,  and  it  seemed  the  most  inexcus 
able  stupidity  that  she  had  not  seen  it  long  ago,  saving 
herself  such  pain  as  she  had  endured.  For  surely  in  time 
she  would  learn  not  to  care. 

The  emotional  crisis  through  which  she  had  passed,  her 
exhaustion,  the  physical  weakness  of  her  body,  all  helped 
to  crystallize  this  momentary  vision  of  the  truth.  She  had 
ceased  to  feel;  her  body  with  its  heart  that  beat  so  thickly, 
and  the  pulsing  blood  that  could  race  through  her  being  like 
a  flame,  was  now  a  spent  thing,  lying  on  an  iron  bench 
beneath  the  trees,  and  she  was  some  one  else  who  watched 
its  throes  with  calm  and  pitying  eyes. 

Why  had  she  loved  so  much  ?  Now  she  could  see  herself 
as  a  spendthrift  pouring  out  the  golden  coin  of  her  love  to 
find  it  cherished  so  little,  and  she  was  ashamed  of  having 
given  so  much.  And  why  had  she  given?  What  was 
there  in  her  body  so  delicate  and  fragile,  that  called  only 
to  evil  ?  No  one  had  loved  her — no  one  had  given  her  what 
others  received  in  full  measure.  Her  beauty  had  brought 
only  this ! 

And  being  in  that  moment  beyond  the  reach  of  passion, 
she  began  to  recall  with  faltering,  timid  hope,  that  life 
might  not  be  over  for  her,  even  though  this  had  happened. 
Yesterday  a  chance  had  been  offered.  The  women,  her  own 
kind,  had  not  deserted  her.  One  of  them  had  said  that  she 
would  be  helped — she  was  not  forgotten !  The  thought  was 
like  a  soothing  hand.  She  had  never  liked  women,  yet 
now  their  strength  was  behind  her — she  could  lean  on  them 
until  her  own  returned. 


THE  THRESHOLD  287 

Yesterday  she  had  wept  and  maundered  about  love — the 
love  she  had  never  had.  If  this  cleansed  feeling  had  been 
hers  then,  what  might  have  been  saved  her  to-day?  She 
could  still  feel  her  feet  in  the  dust! 

Remembering  this,  she  tried  to  rise  in  the  effort  to  release 
herself  from  the  cloying  thought,  but  she  was  numb  with 
cold  and  long  inaction,  and  found  that  she  could  barely 
stand. 

She  began  to  walk  with  painful,  slow  steps  across  the 
Square,  afraid,  now  that  she  had  left  the  bench,  to  linger 
in  the  shadow.  The  broken  heel  of  her  shoe  turned  with 
every  step ;  at  last  it  became  like  a  dull  knife,  pressing 
against  the  hollow  of  her  foot,  but  always  goading  her  to 
move  on.  When  she  reached  the  pavement  she  walked  close 
to  the  closed  fronts  of  the  stores,  putting  out  her  hand  now 
and  then  to  steady  herself.  For  awhile  her  progress  was 
mercifully  shielded  by  the  dimness  of  the  shuttered  lights, 
but  presently  she  came  to  a  brighter  area.  There  was  a 
great  arched  doorway,  guarded  on  either  side  with  wrought 
iron  lamps  whose  pale  yellow  glass  sides  bathed  the  pave 
ment  and  the  wide  interior,  with  a  penetrating  radiance.  In 
the  midst  of  this  glo.w  she  paused  irresolutely ;  the  place  was 
as  familiar  to  her  as  her  room  at  home.  She  had  passed 
those  doors  a  hundred  times ;  had  watched  their  stones  laid 
one  upon  another.  Poor  Dupagny,  this  had  been  his  pride ; 
now  what  was  it  to  be  ? 

The  doors  drew  her  irresistibly,  and  she  began  to  think 
about  Cleve  with  a  dull  insistence  that  would  not  be  denied. 
Perhaps  he  was  there,  within  touch  at  this  very  moment! 
She  could  see  him  if  she  would,  hear  his  voice  and  answer 
it ;  tell  him  what  she  had  learned  in  this  last  hour. 

Now  that  she  loved  him  no  longer  it  could  not  hurt  to 
see  him  once  again !  It  would  not  be  disloyal  to  her  new 


288  THE  THRESHOLD 

clean  heart  to  tell  him  with  her  own  lips  that  he  was  free 
from  any  claim  of  hers !  Deceived  by  the  torpor  of  her 
body,  she  yielded,  turning  in  between  the  yellow  lamps, 
crossing  the  tiled  lobby  in  the  broken  shoes  that  made  a 
delicate  clatter  as  she  walked,  and  finally  slipping  like  a 
shadow  into  the  stairway  that  arose  beside  the  closed  ele 
vator. 

When  she  disappeared  a  man  who  had  been  standing  close 
to  a  marble  pillar  behind  the  cigar  stand,  stepped  out  into 
the  lighted  space  and  made  a  signal  to  some  concealed 
person  who  lingered  in  the  recesses  of  the  locked  Hewlett 
Street  entrance.  If  Miss  Plumey  had  been  there  her  sur 
prise  might  have  been  great  to  recognize  Connally,  the 
despised  companion  and  confidant  of  her  father,  but  now 
in  plain  clothes  with  no  visible  sign  of  his  business  about 
him,  and  her  further  amazement  would  have  been  over 
whelming  when  she  recognized  her  own  father,  Edward 
Plumey,  who  told  his  wife  only  what  he  pleased,  and  who 
now  came  forth,  pleasurably  rubbing  his  hands. 

Connally,  the  policeman,  was  worried.  What  a  business 
for  a  town  like  Cresston,  he  said,  and  did  the  gentlemen 
have  no  respect  for  themselves? 

And  Mr.  Plumey  was  equally  concerned.  He  wanted  to 
know  if  the  other  had  noticed  the  shoes !  A  poor  creature, 
down  to  the  dregs,  no  doubt — walking  the  pavement  with 
her  feet  nearly  bare.  He  was  a  father  and  his  tone  was 
tinged  with  pity,  but  Connally  only  said  sternly:  "They 
must  be  taught  a  lesson !" 

Cleve  looked  up  from  his  work  at  the  faint  signal  of 
footsteps  pausing  before  his  door.  He  was  engaged  in  the 
pleasantly  sentimental  task  of  destroying  old  love  letters — 
after  he  had  first  glanced  over  them,  and  smiled  at  the  ardent 
credulity  of  the  writer.  Why  did  people  keep  such  things — 


THE  THRESHOLD  289 

but  more  remarkable  still,  why  write  them?  He  was  glad 
that  he  had  never  written  letters  to  women,  even  in  reply 
to  the  scores  he  had  received,  for  he  had  a  conviction  that 
women  never  made  away  with  these  trophies,  even  after 
ashes  had  claimed  their  love. 

The  pretty  gold  and  gray  rooms  were  in  a  chaotic  state ; 
drawers  were  pulled  from  the  chiffonier;  the  writing-desk 
yawned ;  in  a  brazier  the  white  dust  of  note  paper  smol 
dered  and  died ;  and  scattered  everywhere  were  the  belong 
ings  accumulated  after  months  of  occupancy.  Cleve  himself 
was  in  a  gorgeous  dressing-gown,  a  new  purchase,  and 
his  hair  was  pleasantly  ruffled.  Occasionally  he  would 
glance  at  the  fabric  of  the  rich  robe  and  caress  it  lightly, 
with  the  pleased  admiration  of  a  child  in  love  with  finery. 
He  frowned  impatiently  at  the  thought  o-f  visitors,  but  called, 
"Come  in,"  when  the  steps  did  not  move  on. 

But  when  the  door  opened  slowly  he  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  a  smothered  exclamation:  "Rose!"  he  cried,  stunned 
at  seeing  her  there. 

She  came  into  the  room,  closing  the  door  gently  behind 
her,  and  the  patent  lock  slipped  into  place  with  a  faint 
click ;  once  there,  she  let  the  blue  cape  fall  from  her 
shoulders  as  though  its  weight  had  at  last  become  too  much 
for  her  strength.  "Yes,  it  is  I,"  she  said  quietly  and 
with  a  movement  of  her  lips  that  might  have  been  a 
smile. 

She  had  forgotten  her  torn  and  draggled  gown,  but  he 
saw  everything  in  a  glance  and  his  amazement  changed  to 
apprehension.  "Rose !"  he  cried  again,  in  genuine  concern, 
"what  has  happened?  Have  you  been  hurt?" 

She  did  smile  at  that ;  a  flicker  of  amusement  lighted  the 
evanescent  beauty  of  her  face.  "Yes,  I  have  been  hurt," 
she  said,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart. 


290  THE  THRESHOLD 

Then  he  understood  that  she  was  here  only  to  renew 
the  conflict  he  believed  was  past.  He  thought,  as  he  had 
thought  ten  minutes  before,  what  fools  women  were !  Why 
could  they  never  Write  finis  to  what  had  moved  their 
hearts?  But  he  tried  to  speak  casually,  putting  a  simple 
interpretation  on  her  visit  as  he  moved  a  chair  forward  for 
her  use.  "Then  you  have  run  in  to  help  me  with  this 
rubbish !  I'm  moving  to-morrow — but  of  course  you  know 
that." 

"How  was  I  to  know?" 

Annoyance,  lurking  just  beneath  the  surface  of  his  trained 
smile,  came  to  the  fore  at  that.  He  frowned  quickly.  "I 
thought  we  had  decided  to  avoid  each  other  for  awhile.  In 
view  of  all  that  has  happened — " 

"I  know,"  she  said  wearily,  "much  has  happened.  But 
you  are  wrong.  I  have  not  come  here  to  reproach  you." 

"Then  why  have  you  come?"  he  demanded  impatiently. 
But  as  soon  as  the  words  left  his  lips  he  regretted  them. 
Nothing  could  be  gained  by  arousing  her  anger  or  emotion 
of  any  sort.  He  decided  to  use  the  tactics  which  had  been 
successful  with  Peter — calm  reason.  If  she  had  come  in  a 
hysterical  state  over  some  grievance,  he  would  soothe  her 
with  commonplaces  until  the  danger  of  a  scene  was  averted. 
But  inwardly  he  cursed  the  impulse  which  had  brought 
her  here  to  harass  him  with  reproaches  when  he  had  asked 
her  to  forget. 

Abandoning  the  task  of  burning  letters  for  the  moment,  he 
put  her  in  one  of  the  big  gray  velvet  chairs  and  took  the  one 
directly  opposite,  certain  that  with  his  eyes  intent  upon 
her  he  could  influence  her  to  his  will.  There  was  nothing  in 
his  face  but  gentleness  and  concern  for  her  welfare.  It  was 
irony  that  a-  mirror  across  the  room  reflected  both,  like  the 
figures  in  a  life  size  painting,  and  Cleve's  youth,  contrasted 


THE  THRESHOLD  291 

with  her  dishevelment,  became  startlingly  assertive.  She 
saw  his  eyes  swiftly  study  this  picture,  and  reading  the  satis 
faction  he  could  not  conceal,  her  own  smile  became  bitter. 
"Yes,  I  am  old,"  she  said,  as  though  he  had  made  a 
statement. 

He  'hastened  to  repudiate  this.  "You're  only  a  bit  seedy, 
my  dear.  What  made  you  think  of  coming  here  to-night? 
You  ought  to  be  resting — you  must  have  had  a  beastly 
day — "  He  spoke  differently ;  even  to  himself  the  words 
did  nat  sound  convincing.  He  tried  hard  to  instill  warmth 
into  the  rest  of  his  speech.  "I  came  to  see  you  to-day, 
Rose,  but  you  didn't  wait  for  me.  I  made  a  point  of 
coming  but  the  house  was  empty  as  a  shell.  It  gave  my 
nerves  a  jolt  and  I  didn't  wait — it  reminded  me  of  an 
empty  trench  on  the  front.  I  couldn't  stay  without 
you." 

"That  is  a  worthy  comparison,"  she  agreed  dully,  "an 
empty  trench.  Many  things  have  died  in  that  house — I  have 
watched  them  die." 

The  fixity  of  her  tone  disturbed  him;  he  saw  now  that 
this  was  not  a  situation  to  be  disposed  of  with  a  few  neatly 
turned  phrases,  but  he  still  had  faith  in  his  power  to  domi 
nate  her.  "Why  did  you  want  to  see  me,  Rose  ?"  he  asked. 
"Is  there  any  way  in  which  I  can  help  you?" 

It  was  by  a  strong  effort  that  she  followed  what  he  said ; 
the  words  were  so  empty,  so  meaningless  and  inconsequen 
tial.  She  hardly  realized  that  he  was  sitting  opposite  her, 
for  now  he  seemed  to  be  some  one  else,  and  not  the  lover 
she  had  known.  This  feeling  was  like  that  exalted  moment 
when  she  had  seemed  to  see  her  own  body  lying  on  the  park 
bench.  .  .  .  But  she  forced  herself  to  repeat  what  he  said, 
asking  the  question  of  herself:  "Why  have  I  come?"  but 
could  find  no  answer. 


292  THE  THRESHOLD 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  said  faintly,  "but  you  have 
changed." 

In  the  materialism  of  his  mood  he  missed  her  meaning 
completely.  All  he  could  read  in  her  words  was  that  she 
meant  to  cling  to  him  and  hamper  him  by  her  unwanted  love. 
He  resolved  to  end  this. 

"Yes,  I  have  changed,"  he  answered  in  a  flat  voice.  "What 
did  you  expect?  Did  you  think  I  was  willing  to  play 
forever  with  you  for  my  companion — for  it  was  only 
play,  you  know  that.  Neither  of  us  was  really  in  earnest. 
You  had  your  husband  I  had  my  career.  We  couldn't  meet 
on  any  ground  but  the  flimsy  one  of — a  summer  flirtation, 
shall  we  say?  Now  the  serious  time  of  winter  is  coming 
and  the  playtime  is  over.  Can't  you  smile  and  be  game 
and  let  it  be  forgotten,  Rose?" 

Lying  back  in  the  big  chair  where  she  was  half  hidden, 
she  began  to  breathe  deeply,  as  though  to  recapture  some 
thing  that  was  about  to  elude  her.  Between  the  uneven 
sighs  of  her  parted  lips  she  heard  herself  saying  over  and 
over,  "Don't  let  me  sink  again — !"  He  thought  she  was 
speaking  to  him  and  asked  her  to  repeat,  but  she  looked 
at  him  strangely  and  was  silent. 

But  as  the  strength  that  had  been  missing  poured  back 
into  her  veins,  that  which  had  brought  her  here  in  resigna 
tion  eluded  her  again.  "Then  you  have  never  loved  me !" 
she  whispered. 

He  contemplated  her  gravely  without  grasping  the 
incredulity  and  despair  beneath  her  words.  He  remained 
unconscious  of  the  importance  of  this  meeting  for  the  same 
reason ;  he  was  still  thinking  only  from  his  own  point 
of  view,  how  this  affected  him,  and  what  would  be  the 
ultimate  solution  of  the  annoying  problem,  for  already  she 
had  refused  to  accept  the  legitimate  answer,  clamoring 


THE  THRESHOLD  293 

instead  for  grisly  details  of  the  thing  that  was  dead  between 
them.  Looking  at  her  so  frail,  so  hectic  in  her  destroyed 
beauty,  he  felt  a  crass  impatience  with  his  own  handiwork. 
She  was  one  of  the  women  who  refuse  to  lose  graciously, 
who  must  haunt  tired  lovers  with  their  endless  "why  ?"  He 
hardened  his  heart,  already  so  hard,  reassuring  himself  with 
the  sophistry  that  to  be  cruel  is  kind. 

"No,"  he  admitted,  slowly,  "I  don't  believe  I  ever  loved 
you.  I  could  not  have  loved  you,  could  I,  and  now  feel  like 
this?" 

She  stiffened  slightly,  bringing  herself  upright  in  her 
chair.  "Then  it  is  ended,"  she  said,  steadily. 

He  was  deceived  into  the  belief  that  he  was  to  escape 
so  easily.  She  did  not  intend  to  make  a  scene,  after  all! 
But  in  his  relief  he  made  the  mistake  of  hastening  her  de 
parture,  for  at  his  first  eager  step  toward  the  door  she 
lifted  her  hand  in  a  gesture  that  halted  him  as  though  a 
spring  had  snapped.  He  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  Life 
and  color  had  come  back  into  her  face  as  though  a  flame 
within  had  been  sent  leaping.  For  a  moment  he  felt  the  old 
sense  of  inferiority  and  humility  before  her,  waiting  for  her 
to  speak. 

"Why  did  you  swear  that  you  loved  me?" 

At  this,  his  tension  relaxed.  He  turned  from  the  door 
in  resignation  and  laughed  easily. 

"Good  Lord !  You  talk  like  a  novice.  Why  did  I  swear 
that  I  loved  you?  Do  I  have  to  tell  you  why?  Have  you 
still  to  learn  the  catechism  of  life?  Dozens  of  men  must 
have  said  that  they  loved  you,  yet  have  any  died  from  it? 
Have  any  even  suffered?" 

"One  has  suffered,"  she  cried,  her  voice  breaking  sud 
denly,  "my  husband !" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "Have  you  just  discovered 


294  THE  THRESHOLD 

that?  Or  has  love  become  so  valuable  to  you  that  you 
regret  the  loss  of  his  ?"  He  began  to  move  around  the  room, 
replacing  and  disturbing  articles  here  and  there ;  showing, 
in  every  movement,  how  impatient  he  was  to  end  the  inter 
view.  "Why  are  you  not  with  him — wherever  he  is?" 

This  taunt  brought  a  sharp  cry  from  her :  "You  can  say 
this— to  me?" 

He  was  furious  at  her  persistency,  but  the  caution  of 
which  he  owned  so  large  a  share  silenced  his  desire  to  hurt 
her  further,  and  he  was  quick  to  return  to  the  sure  ground 
of  reason.  "Don't  let  us  quarrel,  Rose,"  he  begged.  "If 
we  must  part,  let  it  be  as  friends." 

At  this  her  lips  curved  in  their  old  sweet,  ironical  smile. 
"Friends  ?  Could  we  be  friends  ?" 

He  accepted  the  challenge  eagerly.  "Why  not?  The 
best  of  friends.  I'll  do  anything  to  help  you.  If  you  want 
to  join  Dupagny  and  begin  over  again,  I'll  help  you.  I'll 
do  anything  in  the  world — in  reason.  Why  shouldn't  you 
be  happy  again — with  him !" 

"How  remarkable  it  is,"  she  said  mockingly,  "that  within 
a  few  hours  so  many  have  offered  to  help  me.  First  Nina 
Tyson  and  the  others,  kind  souls,  wish  to  pick  me  up  from 
the  mud,  then  Larry  himself — at  the  very  last.  Finally 
you.  But  you  are  too  late  if  you  hope  to  utilize  him  in 
your  plan — for  there  is  already  a  woman  with  him.  She 
had  taken  my  place,  or  the  place  I  never  held — his  chattel, 
he  calls  her.  You  see,  even  that  channel  is  closed  to  me !" 

He  was  staggered :    "Another  woman — " 

"Why  not?"  she  questioned  wearily.  "He  only  wanted 
what  all  of  us  must  have  at  one  time  or  another.  Love." 

The  trend  of  the  conversation  was  making  him  uneasy. 
They  had  reached  an  impasse  so  far  as  Laurence  Dupagny 
was  concerned,  and  he  saw  that  this  subject  must  be  aban- 


THE  THRESHOLD  295 

doned.     But  while  he  searched  for  something  to  replace  it, 
Rose  began  to  laugh. 

"He  suggested  that  you  would  take  care  of  me — you!" 
she  gasped,  with  her  handkerchief  covering  her  shaking 
lips.  "What  a  joke  it  is,  if  you  can  see  the  f-funny  side  of 
it.  Here  am  I — "  Her  laughter  became  uncontrollable. 

He  was  frightened.  "Rose !"  he  called  peremptorily.  He 
had  seen  women  in  courtrooms  hysterical  because  their 
children  were  taken  from  them,  and  he  had  a  hideous  vision 
of  Rose  in  his  apartment,  screaming  for  him  toinarry  her! 
He  was  deadly  pale  and  sweat  sprung  out  upon  his  fore 
head  ;  a  scene  like  this  could  ruin  a  man.  "Rose !"  he  said 
again,  in  such  a  voice  that  she  stopped  laughing  as  suddenly 
as  she  had  begun.  He  went  on  speaking  rapidly.  "You 
are  mad.  No  one  but  a  madwoman  would  behave  like  this. 
Why  should  Dupagny  have  said  a  thing  like  that,  and  why 
did  you  let  him  believe  it  ?  There  are  laws  in  the  country — 
a  man  cannot  hand  his  wife  over  to  another " 

"Those  laws  have  been  broken — "  she  shuddered. 

"But  I  never  promised  you  anything.  Be  fair,  Rose. 
Did  I  promise  anything?" 

Her  voice  gained  weird  strength  from  somewhere  in  her 
wracked  body.  "Promise.  ...  Is  not  love  a  promise? 
What  were  your  kisses  on  my  lips  but  promises?  Yet  you 
are  right.  I  could  hold  you  by  an  empty  word  if  it  had 
been  given  me,  but,  no,  no,  you  held  it  back !  You  promised 
nothing." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean?  Good  God!  Dupagny  has 
deserted  you.  You  have  everything  on  your  side.  You 
can  free  yourself  with  clean  hands,  yet  you  risk  everything 
by  coming  here  where  you  may  be  seen  at  such  a  time  as 
this!  Listen.  Rose,  you  must  go  at  once.  Slip  out 
quietly — " 


296  THE  THRESHOLD 

"Out  of  your  life,"  she  finished  and  then  began  to  sob 
unevenly.  "Men  think  that  they  can  do  anything  to  a 
woman,  but  they  can't — they  can't!  Something  will  punish 
you—" 

"You  talk  like  a  child.  Nothing  will  punish  me."  He 
was  weary  of  the  scene  which  promised  to  be  endless.  Noth 
ing  could  come  of  this  ceaseless  reiteration ;  by  some  means 
he  must  bring  it  to  a  close.  He  took  a  cigarette  from  a 
filigree  box  and  lighted  it,  trying  to  decide  on  an  opening  for 
what  he  meant  to  say.  To  his  consternation  she  moved 
closer  to  him,  looking  into  his  face  with  brimming  eyes. 

"Why  did  you  cease  to  love  me?  What  did  I  do  that 
turned  you  from  me  ?  Cleve,  Cleve,  why  have  I  lost  you !" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "My  God,  if  love  could 
be  brought  back!  Rose,  you  don't  know  what  ycu  ask.  If 
love  could  be  coerced  what  would  the  world  be  but  a  place 
of  groveling  beasts,  each  fighting  for  what  he  desired.  But 
this  cannot  be.  The  lesson  of  life  is  resignation  to  its  laws. 
The  first  of  these  is  decency  and  that  is  founded  on  mutual 
respect — not  the  thing  we  knew  as  love." 

"You  say  this — you?" 

"And  more.  You  have  had  your  chance.  You  have  been 
a  wife — why  didn't  you  have  children?  Give  yourself  an 
anchor  to  rest  on,  in  a  day  like  this  ?  Why  didn't  you  give 
your  husband  something  to  work  for  beside  the  satisfaction 
of  your  whims?  No,  no,  Rose,  I  am  free.  You  cannot 
call  me  back.  You  have  nothing  for  me. 

"I  have  not  begun  to  live,  my  dear,  and  my  life  is  planned 
far  ahead  of  to-night.  There  is  no  place  in  it  for  you. 
You  are  my  past.  You  belong  to  the  era  that  lies  behind 
me  and  time  does  not  retrace  its  footsteps." 

In  the  beginning  he  had  thought  of  her,  but  in  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice  he  forgot  her.  He  liked  the  cadence  of 


THE  THRESHOLD  297 

these  phrases  that  seemed  to  solidify  the  vague  dreams  of 
his  life  to  come  with  Antonia.  He  did  not  think  of  himself 
as  cruel ;  his  feeling  for  Rose  had  become  so  impersonal  that 
he  could  watch  her  shrink  without  emotion.  But  he  was 
not  prepared  for  her  passion.  She  ran  to  him,  striking 
out  with  her  delicate  hands. 

"Damn  you — damn  you — "  she  cried  fiercely,  with  the 
impression  that  it  was  her  own  breast  she  was  beating.  But 
this  frantic  action,  pitiful  and  futile,  only  had  the  result 
of  changing  his  complacence  to  active  anger.  He  pushed 
her  hands  away  with  the  disgust  of  a  man  for  a  woman's 
blows,  and,  as  though  he  had  in  turn  struck  an  actual  blow, 
she  staggered  against  the  square  table  that  occupied  the 
center  of  the  room  and  clung  there,  gazing  at  him  unbe 
lievingly. 

"You  can  do  that  because  you  love  another  woman," 
she  moaned.  "You  can  treat  me  like  this !  Oh,  I  know 
that  I  have  no  pride — I  have  lost  everything  by  coming 
to  you,  but  I  thought  if  I  could  see  you  again —  It  is 
too  late !  You  were  with  her  to-day.  It  is  for  her  sake 
you  have  deserted  me." 

"What  good  can  it  do  to  go  over  all  this  again?"  cried 
Cleve  in  an  exasperated  tone.  "Don't  you  see  how  it  hurts 
us  both?  I  thought  you  understood.  Yes,  Rose,  I  love 
some  one  else.  Don't  look  like  that.  I  am  not  trying  to 
hurt  you,  but  you  must  see  that  anything  between  you  and 
me  is  impossible — " 

"But  you  will  never  marry  her,"  she  gasped,  with  a 
return  of  her  flickering  passion.  "I  went  to  see  her  father 
to-day.  I  told  him  that  she  came  here  to  see  you — that 
the  whole  town  was  talking  about  her.  I  made  him  think — 
Ah,  what  do  I  care  if  you  strike  me !  You  killed  me  long 
ago." 


298  THE  THRESHOLD 

He  may  have  meant  to  strike  her  but  it  never  came  to  that ; 
his  arm  dropped  heavily.  In  her  words  there  was  an  un 
canny  prescience  that  shattered  even  his  cruelty.  He  turned 
away  with  a  short  laugh :  "No  one  would  believe  such  a 
lie,5*  he  scoffed,  controlling  himself  with  difficulty. 

He  deliberately  took  up  a  package  of  letters  and  began 
turning  them  with  his  ringers,  glancing  over  the  closely 
written  pages,  smiling  absently,  pretending  not  to  think  of 
her.  His  complete  disdain  was  far  more  destructive  than 
his  anger  and  her  excitement  died  under  it.  His  straight 
back,  clothed  in  the  rich  purple  and  gold  brocade,  was  turned 
squarely  to  her ;  she  could  see  the  clean  column  of  his  neck, 
bent  slightly  forward,  and  the  way  his  hair  was  clipped 
close  around  the  edges  in  the  military  fashion  he  still 
affected.  She  watched  him  toss  the  letters  carelessly  upon 
the  smoldering  brazier — letters  written  by  some  woman 
who  trusted — and  reach  for  others. 

The  disorder  of  the  room  began  to  press  upon  her  con 
sciousness  and  she  remembered  that  he  had  spoken  of  leav 
ing;  this  was  but  preliminary  to  the  tremendous  change 
which  was  present  in  the  very  atmosphere  about  them. 
Already  the  place  was  unfamiliar  and  ugly  like  the  un 
finished  interior  of  a  hastily  made  garment.  Her  eyes,  tired 
of  tears,  faltered.  He  was  right;  there  was  nothing  for 
her  here. 

Presently  when  she  knew  that  she  could  control  her  voice, 
she  would  speak  to  him,  saying  good-by  for  the  last  time. 
As  she  steadied  herself  against  the  table  she  saw  that  the 
drawer  was  half  open.  It  was  a  deep  drawer,  full  of  such 
relics  as  he  was  bent  upon  destroying,  old  letters,  dance  pro 
grams,  discarded  gloves  and  a  hundred  useless  things.  On 
top  of  all  the  miscellany,  as  though  it  had  been  placed  there 
as  a  silent  invitation  for  her  eyes,  was  a  pistol. 


299 

It  was  a  cheap  thing,  possibly  never  used.  The  nickel 
finish  of  the  barrel  'Was  black  and  discolored  in  spots,  but 
in  its  compact  outline,  so  quiescent  yet  with  such  silent 
menace,  there-  was  a  scwt  of  secret  consolation  that  flashed 
to  her  like  the  signal  of  a  mysterious  friend. 

Her  fingers  closed  cautiously  about  it  and  with  the  touch 
of  the  cold  metal  there  came  a  wild  reaction  to  her  moment 
of  resignation.  She  need  not  suffer  any  more.  As  she 
stood  looking  at  the  thing"  in  her  hand  Cleve  turned  his 
head  and  saw  it.  His  exclamation  brought  her  glance  up 
ward  to  his  and  she  beheld  a  sort  of  bewildered  and  ludi 
crous-  terror  in  his  face  that  was  singularly  familiar  in 
some  distant  way.  .  .  .  For  a  moment  silence  hung  between 
them  like  a  visible  object;  the  beginning  of  an  event,  tragic 
and  frightful,  was  in  their  awakening  faces ;  all  that  had 
gone*  before  was  nothing,  mere  lightning  flashes  from  the 
sky  of  their  dead  passion.  In  a  heartbeat  something  of 
what  was  to  come  revealed  itself  before  it  was  lost  in  the 
meaningless  babble  of  words.  .  .  .  T-hen  this  was'  past  and 
her  gaze  left  his  to  return  to  the  object  in  her  hand. 

The  vague  similarity  between  this  scene  and  another  she 
had  witnessed  returned  to  her  mind;  she  sought  for  and 
recovered  the  scattered  threads  of  memory.  She  remem 
bered  the  day  when  she  had  first  doubted  him ;  the  dark 
theater  where  they  had  sat  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  watched 
the  shadows  play  across  the  screen  in  a  ridiculous  pre 
sentment  of  love  and  tragedy.-  The  woman  in  the  picture 
had  wanted  to  die,  and  the  convenient  means  had  been 
found  beneath  her  hand,  just  as  this  had  come  beneath 
her  own.  She  remembered  how  she  had  gibed  at  this — 
such  things  could  never  happen !  Yet  she  was  here — staring 
fascinated,  like  the  woman  of  the  play — at  the  pistol  in 
the  drawer ! 


300  THE  THRESHOLD 

His  voice,  alarmed,  persuasive,  recalled  her.  "Put  that 
thing  down.  It  might  go  off!"  Words!  She  was  im 
portant  only  in  her  possession  of  this  tawdry  danger. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  she  heard  herself  saying,  but  like  a 
sleepwalker  she  retreated  as  he  advanced.  He  continued 
to  talk  to  her,  holding  out  his  hand  and  using  the  coaxing 
voice  one  uses  to  a  child.  "Don't  play  with  that  .  .  .  it's 
an  old  gun  .  .  .  never  safe  .  .  .  it's  loaded.  It  might  go 
off!"  But  as  he  came  toward  her  she  continued  to  step 
back  until  the  circuit  of  the  room  had  been  made  in  this 
ghastly  fashion,  as  two  wary  gladiators  avoid  each  other 
before  coming  into  conflict. 

The  pistol  hung  loosely  in  her  hand  and  she  smiled  into 
his  face,  a  grimace,  desperate  and  unreal.  His  obvious 
terror  surprised  her  and  fed  the  consuming  fire  in  her  heart. 
She  said  to  herself:  "He  is  afraid  of  this.  This  has  the 
power  to  punish  him  for  me !"  Yet  while  this  furtive  reas 
surance  voiced  itself  in  her  mind,  another  voice,  more 
poignant,  more  entreating,  spoke  dimly  from  her  spirit: 
"This  is  not  I  ...  I  who  love  him  would  not  injure  him." 

Somewhere  in  the  building  a  sound  repeated  itself 
monotonously,  but  without  meaning  to  them.  He  stared  at 
her  fixedly,  reading  some  wild  purpose  in  her  face,  suddenly 
crying  out,  "Rose!  What  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

All  the  chaotic  impulses  that  had  played  upon  her  for 
hours  crystallized  into  sudden  knowledge.  "I  am  not 
afraid  to  die,"  she  murmured.  "It  would  be  easier  to  die 
than  to  suffer  like  this!" 

But  as  she  spoke  he  seemed  to  forget  her :  "What  is  that 
sound?"  he  whispered.  A  sudden  clamor  had  begun  not 
far  away;  the  loud  voices  of  men  in  a  furious  altercation: 
other  sounds.  "It  is  the  police !"  Cleve  cried,  appalled.  "Old 


THE  THRESHOLD  301 

Christy  has  set  them'  on.  They  will  find  you  here!  This 
will  ruin  me." 

Nothing  could  have  been,  more  obvious  than  his  indif 
ference  to  her ;  nothing  could  have  shown  more  plainly  the 
tremendous  loss  she  had  sustained  in  wasting  her  love  upon 
this  man  who*  absorbed  only  ta  give  bitterness  in  return.  A 
vast  disgust  for  him,  for  herself,  for  life,  came  between  her 
and  her  anguish  of  a  moment  before.  She  no  longer  saw 
him  as  he'  appeared  to  her  eyes,  but  as  the  living  exposition 
of  the  sin  that  had  destroyed  her.  Staring  at  him  without 
recognition,  she  leveled  the  pistol  at  his  breast.  Even  as 
the  trigger  responded,  she  wa-s  saying,  "This  is  a  dream^ 
This  cannot  be  I." 

He  turned  slowly  half  away  from  her,  and,  his  knees 
bending  like  broken  straws,  let  his  body  fall  as  it  would.  .  .  . 
But  as  he  swayed  back  and  forth  before  her  like  some  fan 
tastic  pendulum  his  eyes  did  not  leave  her  own,  and  there 
was  still  time  left  to  read  their  incredulity.  .  .  .  Then  it 
was  over.  He  was  finished.  He  would  wound  her  heart 
no*  more.  .  .  . 

The  pistol  fell  crashing.  She  was  afraid  ...  in  deadly 
fear.  She  covered  her  face  and  ran  blindly,  but  a  dozen 
stefte  brought  her  to  the  blank  wall  where  she  clung,  beat 
ing  herself  against  it,  body  and  hands,  as  though  it  must 
open  and  take  her  in  from  very  strength  of  her  desire. 

The  report  within  the  four  walls  seemed  to  reverberate 
eternally,  but  at  last  silence  overcame  its  echoes  and  a 
dreadful  stillness,  more  ominous  than  sound,  replaced  it. 
Her  deep  sighs  filled  the  room ;  there  was  no  movement  any 
where. 

It  was  impossible  to  endure  this!  Little  by  little  she 
dragged  herself  from  the  sheltering  wall  and  returned 


302  THE  THRESHOLD 

timidly  to  the  center  of  the  room.  She  was  calm,  now. 
She  did  not  wish  to  escape ;  her  blind  terror  was  gone.  She 
called  to  him  gently,  "Cleve,  Cleve." 

He  remained  on  the  gray  rug  in  a  crumpled  attitude,  not 
moving,  one  arm  shielding  his  face.  She  thought  he  was 
trying  to  frighten  her  and  sank  on  her  knees  beside  him,  try 
ing  to  draw  the  sheltering  arm  away.  "I  have  not  hurt  you, 
dear?  I  was  mad,  just  as  you  said.  Speak  to  me  and  I 
will  go  away  forever.  You  shall  be  happy." 

But  he  did  not  speak.  She  gazed  at  his  changing  features 
in  heavy  silence  for  a  moment ;  then  she  looked  at  her  hands 
which  had  caressed  him,  and  at  her  knees,  warm  and  wet, 
kneeling  on  the  rug  that  was  no  longer  gray. 

Sounds  were  everywhere.  Dimly  she  heard  them  close 
at  hand,  dull,  hammering  upon  doors  that  would  not  open. 
Voices  in  passion  and  excitement. 

But  what  had  that  to  do  with  the  silence  of  this  room? 
She  knew  now  what  she  had  done, — what  love  had  done, 
and  she  began  to  breathe  deeply,  like  a  tired  child.  Well, 
she  would  rest  once  more  upon  his  breast.  No  one  could 
take  that  from  her.  She  crept  feebly  to  where  that  thing 
lay  that  in  her  hands  had  done  this  .  .  .  then  she  returned 
to  him. 

They  were  beating  upon  the  door.  Terrible  voices  de 
manded  that  she  should  open  but  she  only  smiled,  looking 
around  the  room  that  had  known  a  thousand  happinesses 
and  was  to  shield  her  with  silence  to  the  last.  Then  she 
laid  her  face  against  his. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

OMAR  has  wisely  said  that  "One  thing  is  certain-  Life 
flies — "  and  if  the  rest  of  it  is  not  so  true  he  has  said 
enough  in  that.  And  as  life  flies  it  mercifully  takes  with  it 
that  which  it  has  given  leaving  behind  the  soothing  gift  of 
forgetfulness. 

It  cannot  always  be  winter  and  the  coming  of  another 
summer  lay  like  a  veil  only  lifted  here  and  there  upon  An- 
tonia's  memory. 

The  tragedy  that  had  been  the  culmination  of  so  many 
minor  tragedies,  became  in  time,  from  a  monstrous  foe,  a 
scattered  and  incoherent  rabble  of  subdued  sorrows  which 
attacked  Antonia  only  in  lonely  moments.  Once  she  had  be 
lieved  that  life  without  Cleve  would  always  be  dull  and  gray  ; 
that  was  before  she  knew  he  loved  her,  and  upon  the  very 
threshold  of  happiness,  once  incredible,  she  had  begun  to 
question  the  reality  of  her  love  for  him.  She  had  moments 
of  bitter  self-reproach  in  which  she  knew  herself  as  a  traitor 
to  the  instincts  of  girlhood  which  called  to  Cleve  as  her  mate, 
but  after  a  while  she  could  find  a  queer  comfort  in  the  cer 
tainty  that  her  love  had  faltered  before  she  knew  of  the  dark 
page  which  was  stained  with  Rose  Dupagny's  name.  Her 
love  had  not  failed  because  of  what  she  knew  but  because 
of  what  she  felt,  and  in  spite  of  regret  and  grief  a  little 
secret,  inner  voice  solaced  her.  When  she  passed  the  Pen- 
dleton  house  she  saw  that  the  ruthless  repair  work  was 
abruptly  stopped.  The  old  house,  with  its  scars  cruelly  ex- 

303 


304  THE  THRESHOLD 

posed  behind  the  new  scaffolding,  was  like  a  maimed  body 
which  the  surgeons  had  abandoned;  some  of  the  trees  had 
been  cut  down  but  the  trailing  roses  had  been  spared,  and  as 
late  autumn  came  on,  a  belated  bloom  sometimes  glowed  in 
the  dank  grass;  a  spark  of  life  within  decay.  Antonia  at 
first  would  turn  her  face  away  when  she  came  to  this  part 
of  the  street,  but  gradually  the  feeling  of  dread  changed  and 
she  found  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  looking  at  the  walls  that 
were  to  have  sheltered  her.  She  and  the  old  house  had  a 
secret  that  only  the  two  of  them  would  ever  know,  for  she 
had  learned  from  its  antiquity  the  shallowness  of  her  own 
brief  emotion.  As  the  months  went  by,  Cleve's  image  be 
came  shadowed  and  dimmed ;  the  brilliance  which  dazzled 
her  was  lost  and  she  could  see  the  thinness  of  the  color  that 
warmed  for  a  little  while  before  it  vanished.  Sometimes 
she  felt  the  old  pain  like  a  hand  upon  her  heart,  but  as  time 
went  by  this  became  instead  of  pain,  a  sort  of  ritual,  like 
the  opening  of  a  book  with  marked  pages. 

For  the  others  the  wheel  had  brought  compensations  for 
its  bitterness.  All  day  long  Roscoe  Christy  lay  in  his  chair 
under  the  windows  where  the  plum  trees  thrust  their  frosted 
fingers  into  his  face,  and  all  day  long  Mrs.  Christy  sat  like 
the  White  Queen  among  the  billows  of  rosy  dimities  that 
surrounded  her  and  was  happy  with  a  passionate,  thrilling 
happiness  that  overflowed  her  simple  heart.  Nobody  would 
ever  know  what  Mrs.  Christy  had  felt  during  the  weeks  of 
her  voluntary  exile.  She  masked  her  real  feeling  beneath  a 
profusion  of  meaningless  words  which  might  have  been 
illuminating  to  herself  but  left  her  hearers  groping  in  the 
dark.  She  had  not  been  silent  even  when  Cleve's  name  was 
mentioned,  because  silence  for  her  was  impossible,  but  she 
so  swathed  and  wrapped  her  replies  in  endless  allusion  that 
the  mind  wearied  of  attempting  to  discover  her  meaning. 


THE  THRESHOLD  305 

If  she  was  grieved  by  Antonia's  grief,  her  casual  smile  did 
not  falter,  and  if  secretly  she  rejoiced  in  the  revelation  that 
had  come  in  time  to  prevent  a  greater  disaster,  she  concealed 
her  gentle  triumph.  Antonia  was  there,  living  between  her 
father  and  mother,  closer  to  them  than  she  had  ever  been, 
and  Mrs.  Christy,  in  her  thankfulness,  asked  no  more  than 
a  satisfied  present. 

So  far  as  could  be  seen  life  returned  to  its  old  measured 
round  in  the  dull  little  old-fashioned  house  buried  in  its  old 
trees,  but,  under  the  somnolence,  the  heart  of  life  stirred  like 
the  awakening  of  the  orchard  in  spring, — for  life  does  not 
stand  still,  even  in  its  depths.  Antonia's  eyes,  veiled  to  the 
day,  began  to  take  on  their  old  questioning,  seeking  look, 
when  she  sat  on  the  steps  watching  the  mysterious  night 
which  reveals  everything,  creep  over  the  world. 

"Mother,  what  is  love  ?" 

Mrs.  Christy's  face,  turned  from  the  pale  light  of  the  win 
dow  was  in  shadow,  but  her  voice  after  a  pause  was  serene 
and  calm. 

"I  thought  you  knew,  child." 

"I  thought  I  knew  .  .  .  but  now.  .  .  .  Someway  I  have 
lost  it.  Everything  is  dark.  .  .  .  How  can  I  know?" 

She  could  see  her  mother's  profile  against  the  dim  back 
ground,  and  by  some  miracle  its  youth  lived  again.  All  the 
blurring  shadows  cast  by  unkind  years  were  hidden  and 
only  sweetness,  the  ineradicable  blitheness  of  a  young  spirit, 
remained. 

In  the  room  beyond,  the  breathing  of  some  one  in  troubled 
sleep  came  faintly  to  them,  and  Mrs.  Christy  from  time  to 
time  turned  her  listening  face  to  this  direction ;  she  never 
quite  forgot,  though  for  a  long  time  she  had  been  listening 
to  this. 


306  THE  THRESHOLD 

Antonia  after  setting  out  bravely  to  conquer  her  fate,  had 
returned  to  ask  her  question  and  to  find  the  answer  of  her 
heart,  but  her  mother  did  not  recognize  this  as  a  victory. 
She  did  not  know  that  Antonia  had  come  back  to  her  when 
other  things  failed,  or  that  she  was  troubled  and  ashamed. 

"You  cannot  lose  love,"  Mrs.  Christy  said  slowly,  seeking 
for  words  because  she  had  never  expressed  this  but  had 
only  known  it  as  a  part  of  her  being  .  .  .  "unless  you  stop 
giving  it.  Love  is  what  you  hold  in  your  heart."  She 
touched  the  soft  material  that  had  fallen  from  her  hands 
when  it  grew  too  dark  to  sew.  She  did  not  know  how  to 
explain  what  was  so  clear  to  her.  "Love  is  giving  yourself, 
I  think.  ...  I  have  loved  your  father  a  hundred  times  more 
since  he  is  so  helpless  and  needs  me  so.  ...  Just  as  I  loved 
you  and  Donnie  when  you  were  little.  .  .  ." 

"But  isn't  there  something  more?"  cried  Antonia  fiercely. 

Her  mother  smiled  wisely,  "Dear  me,  child !  Of  course 
there  is  more.  Didn't  you  ever  notice  the  sun  come  out 
after  a  long  rainy  spell?  Even  the  mud  puddles  shine. 
Love  is  like  that ;  it  warms  and  blesses." 

Antonia  moved  restlessly.     "Love  does  not  bless — " 

In  that  long  year  of  readjustment  and  failure,  one  thing 
had  remained  firm  and  unshaken,  and  because  humanity  is 
naively  selfish  and  regardful  only  of  that  which  shakes  its 
repose,  even  Antonia,  who  believed  that  she  was  remorseful 
and  unselfish,  could  not  see  what  was  so  close  to  her. 

Peter  Withrow  had  made  so  many  of  the  hard  places 
smooth  that  Antonia  stumbled  only  once  in  awhile.  She 
grew  so  used  to  him  that  she  could  not  realize  why  her  pain 
and  loneliness  were  less  and  less  with  every  day. 

But  Peter  was  going  away.  When  he  first  spoke  of  this 
she  was  conscious  of  a  little  shock  as  though  some  dear, 


THE  THRESHOLD  307 

familiar  thing  had  suddenly  been  snatched  from  her  hands 
and  afterward,  when  she  tried  to  accustom  herself  to  the 
thought,  she  found  an  emptiness  and  a  growing  wistfulness 
where  she  had  been  content  to  drift.  What  would  life  be 
like  without  Peter?  She  could  find  no  answer  to  that, 
though  she  asked  it  over  and  over  again. 

She  watched  him  come  swinging  down  the  street,  his  steps 
quickening  as  he  neared  the  house,  as  though  some  inner 
fire  had  been  lighted.  The  arc  lamp  on  the  corner  gave 
her  a  glimpse  of  his  shoulders,  slightly  drooped,  carelessly 
strong.  She  knew  that  he  was  watching  eagerly  for  the 
gleam  of  her  white  dress  upon  the  steps  and  as  he  opened 
the  gate  she  went  down  the  path  to  meet  him. 

''What  will  I  do  when  you  are  gone?"  Antonia  questioned 
whimsically,  but  she  was  surprised  to  feel  her  heart  pause, 
\vaiting  for  his  answer.  It  was  a  sensation  so  new  and  yet 
so  old  that  she  wanted  to  grasp  and  hold  it. 

They  were  walking  together  in  the  dark  old  orchard  under 
the  dark  old  trees  whose  wounds  were  already  hidden  and 
healing  beneath  the  veil  of  heavy  hanging  leaves.  Peter 
took  her  hand  and  held  it  gently.  Her  fingers  clung  to  his 
for  a  moment  as  if  the  two  hands  waited  for  some  signal ; 
then  they  fell  apart. 

After  a  little  Peter  spoke  straightforwardly  as  he  had 
spoken  on  that  unforgettable  day  a  year  ago. 

"I  can't  do  without  you,  Antonia.  I've  tried  and  found 
that  I  can't.  I  love  you  and  I  want  you  more  than  any 
thing  in  the  world,  and  if  I  can't  have  you  I'm  going  where 
I  won't  see  you  for  a  long  time." 

"Until  you  get  over  it,"  she  finished. 

"I  never  will  get  over  it, — until  I  learn  to  live  without 
you,  I  wanted  to  say." 

All  at  once  she  felt  desolate.     "Then  it  is  true  that  every- 


308  THE  THRESHOLD 

thing  passes, — that  nothing  lasts.  If — if — I  loved  you,  my 
love  would  pass  and  yours  would  pass  and  we  would  find 
ourselves  staring  into  empty  space, — is  that  love,  Peter?" 

He  looked  earnestly  into  her  eyes,  "Love  does  not  pass, 
my  dearest."  She  could  not  see  his  face  but  she  could  feel 
the  strength  of  him  that  some  way  sent  a  message  from  his 
heart  to  her  own  and  peace,  the  answer  to  all  that  had  been 
inexplicable,  followed  this.  Peter  had  no  gift  of  eloquence 
for  himself,  and  they  were  both  silent  until  they  came  to 
the  boundary  fence  where  they  stopped  for  a  moment  before 
they  turned  back  to  the  house. 

"Love  does  not  pass,"  he  repeated.  "It  is  we  who  change 
and  grow  older  and  wiser,  and  if  wre  find  emptiness  when 
we  look  for  our  treasure  it  is  because  it  was  never  there." 
He  went  on  in  a  musing  tone,  "I  can't  remember  when  I 
haven't  loved  you,  so  how  can  I  describe  love  when  it  has 
grown  to  be  a  part  of  me,  like  my  body  and  my  soul  ?  And 
yet  this  is  what  I  have  to  offer  for  the  gift  of  yourself.  It 
is  so  little  that  I  am  ashamed,  but  it  is  big  enough  to  en 
compass  the  world  for  your  sake." 

Antonia  thought  of  all  the  people  who  had  suffered  from 
what  they  knew  of  love, — of  poor  Rose  whose  devastated 
heart  bred  madness, — of  Cleve  whose  shallow  self  had  taken 
the  best  of  what  it  touched;  of  Dupagny  and  of  the  other 
figures  in  her  little  world,  and  suddenly  she  got  a  small, 
sweet  vision  of  security  and  selflessness  which  Peter  had  been 
holding  out  to  her  and  that  she  had  been  too  blind  to  see. 
And  in  that  moment  her  heart  answered  his  with  a  warm 
responsive  throb  that  drew  the  currents  of  their  lives  to 
gether.  Her  hands  fluttered  in  the  darkness  like  white 
moths  and  presently  they  were  lying  in  his,  tremulous  but 
secure. 


THE  THRESHOLD  309 

"It  must  have  always  been  you,"  she  said.  "I  never  knew 
because  you  were  so  close  to  me,  but  now  I  know,  and  if 
you  still  love  me  like  that — " 

After  they  had  passed  on  a  deep  stillness  came  upon  the 
orchard.  Under  the  bending  trees,  caves  of  intense  shadow 
yawned  emptily  but  beyond  the  white  fence  the  radiant 
circle  of  blue  white  light  teemed  with  life;  millions  of 
senseless  insects  whirling  dizzily  in  a  pursuit  that  never 
ended.  The  post  where  Donnie  once  was  king  now  was 
half  hidden  by  a  flamboyant  poster  that  announced  a  com 
ing  attraction  at  the  Auditorium.  The  corner  had  taken 
on  change  as  the  world  changes ;  a  little  coarsened, — made 
public  by  its  bid  for  attention,  like  an  article  offered  for 
sale  and  passing  from  hand  to  hand.  The  tree  which  once 
shaded  it  had  been  cut  down  and  its  bare  stump  was  re 
vealed  nakedly  in  a  little  oasis  of  tangled  grass  and  withered 
leaves. 

It  was  the  spot  where  Antonia  used  to  wait  in  the  velvet 
dusk  to  see  Cleve  pass,  but  she  did  not  remember  that  now. 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


A     000925153     9 


